“I see little or nothing of Mr. Percival,” said Ruth stiffly. “We are not friends,—not really friends.”
“But you admire him, eh? Quite as much as I admire him,—and as every one else does.”
“There are certain things about him that I admire, of course.”
“You admire him for the same reason that I admire him. Because he has a most charming and agreeable way of telling me to go to the devil. Is that not so?”
“Madame Obosky!”
“It comes to the same thing. If you would like me to put it in another form, he has a very courteous way of resisting. He is most aggravating, Miss Clinton. He is most disappointing. He should be like soft clay in our hands, and he isn't. Is that not so?”
“Is it not possible, Madame Obosky, that we,—you and I,—may have an entirely different viewpoint so far as Mr. Percival is concerned? Or any other man, for that matter?” Ruth spoke coldly, almost insultingly.
“I dare say,” agreed Olga, composedly, not in the least offended by the implication. “You want to marry him. I do not.”
“How dare you say that? I do not want to marry that man. I do not want to marry him, I say.”
“How interesting. You surprise me, Miss Clinton. It appears, then, that our viewpoint is in nowise different, after all.”