"They—they are not for common people," she said frigidly.
Sam surveyed her leisurely.
"I suppose that means me," he remarked.
She answered with a gesture.
"And of course you're something better than common clay," he mused.
She did not stoop to answer him.
"Say!" he broke out suddenly. "Far be it from me to be impolite to a lady, particularly a lady with her portrait written in a three-dollar society book. But do you know that you make me good and tired?"
The lady in the tree gasped.
"Yes; dead weary. I've heard about you. I read the papers sometimes. You're one of the exclusive bunch; you're in the 'it' class. Everybody outside of it is plain common dirt—to you. You've got the coin and the pedigree, which is supposed to make you something extra special. You're supposed to be a shade higher up than human. They tell me you're a heart-breaker, too."
Rosalind turned white.