"Because I tell you to. I'm a nurse, and know what I'm about."
"You ... a nurse?"
"Yes, but never mind about that. Why do you sit in the sun, if it affects you like this?"
"Because I like it, but I'm hanged if I'll sit here while you're standing. I'll fetch my chair and bring it over."
"No, I'll go," and Stara walked leisurely away, and returned dragging the chair, in which she proceeded to settle herself.
"What a beast of a chair," she said, wriggling; "not nearly so comfy as mine. Oh, there's a book here, what is it? Ah, Schopenhauer," picking it up and opening it, the pages falling apart where Graeme had last been reading, 'On Woman.' "Oh!"
"Don't read the stuff, please, Miss Selbourne; it's rubbish from beginning to end, that chapter."
"Don't be alarmed, Colonel Graeme; I've read all his works, and about this essay, personally I think it very true, though perhaps a little violent. I wonder, though, whether he made it up with her afterwards."
"Her, who?"
"The woman that essay was written at. Pique and disappointment show in every line. He was certainly in love when he wrote it."