Sara smiled back at him.
“I didn't think it necessary to make any conventional professions of modesty—to you,” she said. “You don't—wrap things up much—yourself.”
He leaned against the piano, looking down at her.
“No. Nothing I say can make things either better or worse for me, so I have at least gained freedom from the conventions. That is one of my few compensations.”
“Compensations for what?” The question escaped her almost before she was aware, and she waited for the snub which she felt would inevitably follow her second indiscretion that afternoon.
But it did not come. Instead, he fenced adroitly.
“Compensation for the limitations of a hermit's life,” he said lightly.
“The life is your own choice,” she flashed back at him.
“Oh, no, we're not always given a choice, you know. This world isn't a kind of sublimated children's party.”
She regarded him thoughtfully.