“When you say that nobody wants you,” said K., not very steadily, “I—I think you are making a mistake.”
“Who?” she demanded. “Christine? Aunt Harriet? Katie? The only person who ever really wanted me was my mother, and I went away and left her!”
She scanned his face closely, and, reading there something she did not understand, she colored suddenly.
“I believe you mean Joe Drummond.”
“No; I do not mean Joe Drummond.”
If he had found any encouragement in her face, he would have gone on recklessly; but her blank eyes warned him.
“If you mean Max Wilson,” said Sidney, “you are entirely wrong. He's not in love with me—not, that is, any more than he is in love with a dozen girls. He likes to be with me—oh, I know that; but that doesn't mean—anything else. Anyhow, after this disgrace—”
“There is no disgrace, child.”
“He'll think me careless, at the least. And his ideals are so high, K.”
“You say he likes to be with you. What about you?”