“I do not like my own. It makes me think of the odiously good little girls in story books. Besides, what is it? Why am I called Constance? Is it for the town in Switzerland? I was never there. Is it for the virtue I least possess?”
“As your sister is called Grace,” suggested George.
“Hush! Grace is a very graceful girl. Take it in that way, and leave her alone. Am I the English for Constantia? Come, give me an explanation! Talk! Say something! You are leaving the burden of the conversation to me, and then you are not even listening!”
“I was thinking of you—I always am. What shall I talk about? You are the only subject on which I could be at all eloquent.”
“You might talk about yourself, for a change,” suggested Constance.
“But you say you hate me, so that you would not find an account of me agreeable, would you?”
“I think my hatred could be made very accommodating, if you would talk pleasantly—even about yourself.”
“I would rather make love to you than talk.”
“I have no doubt you would, but that is just what I do not want you to do. Besides, you have done it before—without any result.”
“That is no reason for not trying again, is it?”