“Women must always have the last word!” he said, with a good-humoured touch of irony. “And even when they are enemies, they kiss!”
She raised her eyes frankly to his.
“That’s true!” she answered. “I’ve seen a lot of it! But your mother and I could never be enemies, and I—well, I am grateful for even a ‘show’ of liking.”
He looked surprised.
“Have you had so little?” he queried. “And you care for it?”
“Does not everyone care for it?”
“No. For example, I do not. I have lived too long to care. I know what love or liking generally mean—love especially. It means a certain amount of pussy-cat comfort for one’s self. Now, though all my efforts are centred on comfort in the way of perfect health and continuous enjoyment of life for this ‘Self’ of ours, I do not care for the mere pussy-cat pleasure of being fondled to see if I will purr. I have no desire to be a purring animal.”
Diana laughed—a gay, sweet laugh that rang out as clearly and youthfully as a girl’s. He gave her a quick, astonished glance.
“I amuse you?” he inquired, with a slight touch of irritation.
“Yes, indeed! But don’t be vexed because I laugh! You—you mustn’t imagine that anybody wants to make you ‘purr!’ I don’t! I’d rather you growled, like a bear!” She laughed again. “We shall get on splendidly together,—I know we shall!”