“Oh”— She changed the subject. “You’re glad to see me, Henry?”
“Why, sure.”
“You don’t seem to be.”
“I am.”
“I suppose you think I’m a—a waster. Sort of the World’s Worst Butterfly.”
Henry laughed.
“Not at all. Have a good time while you’re young. Why? Do I seem like the priggish and earnest youth?”
“No—” she paused,“—but somehow I began thinking how absolutely different the party I’m on is from—from all your purposes. It seems sort of—of incongruous, doesn’t it?—me being at a party like that, and you over here working for a thing that’ll make that sort of party impossible ever any more, if your ideas work.”
“I don’t think of it that way. You’re young, and you’re acting just as you were brought up to act. Go ahead—have a good time?”
Her feet, which had been idly swinging, stopped and her voice dropped a note.