"I don't want it," cried she, agitated. "I never thought of it."
"Yes, you've probably thought of it," replied he coolly. "But you will not get it."
"Well, that's settled—I'll not get it."
"Then why do you need me? Of what use can I be to you? Only one use in the world. To tell you the truth—the exact truth. Is not that so?"
"Yes," she said. "That is what I want from you—what I can't get from anyone else. No one else knows the truth—not even Mrs. Brindley, though she's intelligent. I take back what I said about your being cowardly. Oh, you do stab my vanity so! You mustn't mind my crying out. I can't help it—at least, not till I get used to you."
"Cry out," said he. "It does no harm."
"How wonderfully you understand me!" exclaimed she. "That's why I let you say to me anything you please."
He was smiling peculiarly—a smile that somehow made her feel uncomfortable. She nerved herself for some still deeper stab into her vanity. He said, his gaze upon her and ironical:
"I'm sorry I can't return the compliment."
"What compliment?" asked she.