She tossed her head:
"I don't need any one."
"Mademoiselle," said he, "confess that you do not find me congenial."
"Neither congenial nor uncongenial. I don't really know you."
"If you really knew me, you'd have confidence in me."
"I don't think so," she said.
"Why?"
She took his hand, turned it over, bent over the open palm, and as she examined it said slowly:
"Dissipation.... Greedy for money.... Conscienceless...."
"But I protest, mademoiselle! Conscienceless? I? I who am full of scruples."