"Maybe by-and-by; and—I sometimes wish you liked me, Beatrix; but I don't know you, and you are little better than a child still; and—no—it could not be—it never could—you'd be sure to hate me in a little while."
"But I do like you, Lady Jane. I liked you very much in London, you were so kind; and I don't know why you were so changed to me when you came here; you seem to have taken a positive dislike to me."
"So I had, child—I detested you," said Lady Jane, but in a tone that had something mocking in it. "Everything has grown—how shall I express it?—disgusting to me—yes, disgusting. You had done nothing to cause it; you need not look so contrite. I could not help it either. I am odious—and I can't love or like anybody."
"I am sure, Lady Jane, you are not at all like what you describe."
"You think me faultless, do you?"
Beatrix smiled.
"Well, I see you don't. What is my fault?" demanded Lady Jane, looking on her not with a playful, but with a lowering countenance.
"It is a very conceited office—pointing out other people's faults, even if one understood them, which I do not."
"Well, I give you leave; tell me one, to begin with," persisted Lady Jane Lennox.
Beatrix laughed.