John sighed, and regarded her thoughtfully.
"You're a queer little girl, Sophy," he said. "I don't know how to advise you."
"Of course you don't," she answered. "No one could. As for you, I suppose you will marry Louise. What will happen to you after that, I don't know. Perhaps I sha'n't care so much about London then. You've made it very nice for me, you know."
"You've made it bearable even for me," he told her. "I often think how lonely I should have been without you to talk to. Louise sometimes is delightfully companionable, and kind enough to turn one's head. Other days I scarcely understand her; everything we say to one another seems wrong. I come away and leave her simply because I feel that there is a wall between us that I can't get over."
"There isn't really," Sophy sighed. "Louise is a dear. Considering everything, I think she is wonderful. But you are utterly different. She is very complex, very emotional, and she has her own standards of life. You, on the other hand, are very simple, very faithful and honest, and you accept the standards which have been made for you—very, very rigidly, John."
"I wonder!" he murmured, as he looked into his wine-glass. "Sometimes I think I am a fool. Sometimes I think I'd do better to let go the strings and just live as others do. Sometimes ideas come into one's head that upset principles and everything. I don't know!"
Sophy leaned across the table toward him.
"Be a little more human, John," she begged. "You must feel kind things sometimes. Couldn't you say them? I am depressed and gloomy. Be like other men, for once, and flirt with me a little! Try to say things, even if you don't mean them—just for once, for a few short hours!"
He held her hand for a moment. The fingers seemed to respond to his touch with a little thrill.
"You silly child!" he exclaimed. "If I were to begin to say all the kind things I feel about you—"