"And suppose (forgive me if I seem rude), suppose I don't consider the rest worth conquering? Why should I? What one has to strive so for—"
"Is worth the most. One has to strive for everything in this world, everything that is really worth while. One has to strive to get it, one has to strive to keep it."
"Well, I don't think I care very much to-night, if I never get anything ever again in all my life to come."
"Poor little tired girl!"
Claire's chin went up with a jerk. "I don't need your pity, I won't have it. I am a stranger to you and to your friends. I am—" The defiant chin began to quiver.
"If you were not so tired," Francis Ronald said gravely, "I'd have this thing out with you, here and now. I'd make you tell me why you so wilfully misunderstand. Why you seem to take pleasure in saying things that are meant to hurt me, and must hurt you. As it is—"
Claire turned on him impetuously. "I don't ask you to make allowances for me. If I do what displeases you, I give you perfect liberty to find fault. I'm not too tired to listen. But as to your making me do or say anything I don't choose, why—"
He shook his head. "I'm afraid you are a hopeless proposition, at least for the present. Perhaps, some time I may be able to make you understand—Forgive me! I should say, perhaps, some time you may be willing to understand."
Their chauffeur drew up beside the curbstone in front of Martha's door, then sprang down from his seat to prove to his lordly-looking "fare" that he knew his business, and was deserving of as large a tip as a correct estimate of his merit might suggest.
Francis Ronald took Claire's key from her, fitted it into the lock of the outer door, and opened it for her.