"I thought I'd like to talk about you."
She waved a hand in deprecation. "Me? Oh, no. We can't come to earth like that. Tell me another fairy tale."
"Fairy tale? Then you don't believe me?"
"Oh, yes," she laughed, "I believe you, but to me they're fairy tales just the same. It seems so easy for you to do wonderful things. I wish you'd do some conjuring for me."
"Oh, there isn't any magic business about me. But I'll try. What do you want most?"
She put an elbow on her knee and gazed at the blossom in her fingers. Her voice, too, fell a note.
"What I think I want most," she said slowly, "is a way out of this." She waved the blossom vaguely in the direction of the drawing room. "I'm sick of it all, of the same tiresome people, the same tiresome dinners, dances, teas. We're so narrow, so cynical, so deeply enmeshed in our small pursuits. I'm weary—desperately weary of myself."
"You?"
"Yes." And then, with a short, unmirthful laugh, "That's my secret. You didn't suspect it, did you?"
"Lord! no." And after a pause, "You're unhappy about him?"