"Out of the question, Hephzibah, or Miss Agatha Kent, if you like that better. You see, you interest me."
"I'm sorry I can't return the compliment, but you bore me—excruciatingly."
"To begin with," Warren explained analytically, "you are the prettiest girl I know, bar none. And in the second place, I'm inclined to believe you're the brainiest. If what they told me last night is true, you ought to make your fortune on the stage."
Agatha regarded him silently and the antagonism died out of her face. He was almost sorry, for it left her white and wan and rather pitiful.
"You know what a fraud I am, then?" she said wistfully.
"I know you're the cleverest girl of my acquaintance, if you could get by with a thing like that."
"I suppose he simply despises me." Into Agatha's mind had flashed the preposterous hope that possibly Warren's tolerant attitude toward her escapade was shared by the only man who counted.
"Who? Forbes? Why the devil should you care what he thinks? Old Forbes was always a bit of a prig."
Positive hatred looked out of Agatha's eyes. "Oh, I don't know. I shouldn't call a man a prig simply because he objected to being tricked and deceived and lied to. I suppose he has a high enough ideal of women so that he expects a girl to tell the truth, just as much as if she were a man. I consider that attitude a compliment, myself."