But because one criticized, that did not preclude a certain degree of affection. Lydia was certainly fond of Nathalie.
She did not for an instant, however, pretend either to herself or to Rosie Graham, that the latter’s words were unjustified by fact.
“I’m certainly not at all in love with Mr. Margoliouth now,” she said, “but there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be later on, I suppose. And because it’s more or less true that I’ve never cared a very great deal for anybody so far, it doesn’t follow that I never shall. I’m not twenty yet.”
“I suppose there’s hope for you,” said Rosie Graham grudgingly. “But I’m very sorry for you when you once do begin to care for somebody—I don’t mind who it may be.”
Lydia was conscious of feeling rather flattered by the interpretation she put upon the words.
“I suppose that all one’s eggs in one basket is always a risk,” she said, not without complacency.
Rosie gave a short, staccato laugh, and again shot one of her disconcerting glances at her visitor.
“What I mean is that you’ll do it so jolly badly. You’ve never cared for anybody but yourself, and you won’t even know how to begin.”
“Then you had better be sorry for the person I care for,” said Lydia drily.
She was in reality very angry, and she rose to go for fear of betraying it.