“Just? You hadn’t read it this afternoon,” said Overt.
“How do you know that?”
“I think you should know how I know it,” the young man laughed.
“I suppose Miss Fancourt told you.”
“No indeed—she led me rather to suppose you had.”
“Yes—that’s much more what she’d do. Doesn’t she shed a rosy glow over life? But you didn’t believe her?” asked St. George.
“No, not when you came to us there.”
“Did I pretend? did I pretend badly?” But without waiting for an answer to this St. George went on: “You ought always to believe such a girl as that—always, always. Some women are meant to be taken with allowances and reserves; but you must take her just as she is.”
“I like her very much,” said Paul Overt.
Something in his tone appeared to excite on his companion’s part a momentary sense of the absurd; perhaps it was the air of deliberation attending this judgement. St. George broke into a laugh to reply. “It’s the best thing you can do with her. She’s a rare young lady! In point of fact, however, I confess I hadn’t read you this afternoon.”