They seated themselves at the table, and began to eat moderately warm breakfast.
"Why do you think it's a danger?" asked Edgar.
"Well ..." Claudia spoke with her mouth full; but she was full of candour, because she and Edgar were the best friends in the world. "You see, Edgar, she's conceited. It may be only skin deep; but if it isn't, then she's hopeless. I mean, if it's ingrained."
Edgar felt a creeping of the flesh. His grave expression of interest did not change; but his breath was a little short.
"She's very young, of course," he objected. "Isn't conceit a phase with some people?"
"I hope to cure her. But you'd admit it's a very dangerous thing to have in the blood."
"You're very wise, Claudia," he said, after a pause.
"I'm vain; and you're proud (which is a sort of vanity); and we're both obstinate. But we're not conceited. Now Patricia thinks no end of herself. She's got the idea that there's something wonderful just in the fact that she's herself. At least, I think so."
"She thought you were cleverer than she was. She liked you."