"You are Grace Noir's friend—that explains it."
"I am your friend, too, Fran."
"My friend, too!" she echoed bitterly. "Oh, thanks—also!"
Abbott came through the gate, and tried to read her face. "Does the fact that I am her friend condemn me?"
"No—just classifies you. You couldn't be her friend if you were not a mirror in which she sees herself; her conscience is so sure, that she hasn't use for anything but a faithful reflector of her opinions. She empties her friends of all personality, and leaves them filled with their imagination of her character."
"Her friends are mere puppets, it appears," Abbott said, smiling. "But that's rather to her credit, isn't it? Would you mind to explain your imagination of her character?"
His jesting tone made her impatient. "I don't think her character has ever had a chance to develop; she's too fixed on thinking herself what she isn't. Her opinion of what she ought to be is so sure, that she has never discovered what she really is. And you can't possibly hold a secret from her, if you're her friend; she takes it from you as one snatches a toy from a little child."
Abbott was still amused. "Has she emptied me of all she wants?"
"Yes. You have given her strong weapons against me, and you may be sure she'll use them to her advantage."
"Fran, step back into the light—let me see your face; are you in earnest? Your eyes are smoldering—Oh, Fran, those eyes! What weapons have I given her?"