"I can't believe that, or you would not have bothered to bring me to Paris."
"Merely the desire for a new sensation. I assure you, as Lionel assured me, that all my virtues spring from the Ego."
"What is the Ego?"
"Leah Kaimes in this instance."
"I don't think you are selfish," persisted Joan; "if you really and truly were, you would not say so."
"Oh, but I should; that is my refined form of self-love. When I cry aloud my imperfections, I receive some such compliment as you have paid. Then little god Ego, sitting within my breast, sniffs up the incense."
"In that case I am selfish, too. I like to be told nice things."
"And to be given nice things, such as---- Well, I expect Lionel, in spite of clerical propriety, can explain better than I, and," added Lady Jim, mischievously, "in dumb show. My dear, your Ego is shaped like a good young padre; you are merged in Lionel--swallowed up, as some one's rod swallowed up some one else's. I suppose now"--Leah nursed her knees with clasped hands--"I suppose when you marry St. Sebastian, you will be wildly happy in a dull country rectory, wearing twice-turned gowns and last year's hats, and fussing after old women and grubby village urchins, with your husband's sermons for relaxation when penny readings pall."
"Quite happy," assented Joan, laughing at the over-coloured picture--"with Lionel, of course."
"As I say: your Ego is his Ego. Dear!" and Lady Jim dropped two impulsive kisses on her companion's cheeks. Joan wondered at this uninvited display of affection, and wondered still more when Leah turned away with a somewhat bitter laugh. Perhaps, had she guessed the truth, her sympathy would have extended to this woman, whom self-love isolated from humanity.