“And we haven’t had a good time, because—unfortunately—we’ve quarrelled!”
“I should describe it differently. There are certain proofs and tests of friendship that any friend may ask for. But when they are all refused—”
“Friendship itself is strained!” laughed Constance, looking round at her companion. She was breathing quickly. “In other words, we have been quarrelling—about Radowitz—and there seems no way of making it up.”
“You have only to promise me the very little thing I asked,” said Falloden stiffly.
“That I shouldn’t dance with him to-night, or again this week? You call that a little thing?”
“I should have thought it a small thing, compared—”
He turned and faced her. His dark eyes were full of proud agitation—of things unspoken. But she met them undaunted.
“Compared to—friendship?”
He was silent, but his eyes held her.
“Well then”—said Constance—“let me repeat that—in my opinion, friendship which asks unreasonable things—is not friendship—but tyranny!”