"You make me laugh. Do you suppose I want to hear anyone speak ill of my friends?"
"Why, yes. You might demur, but you would listen."
"Yes, I believe I would," she laughed, "and isn't it mean? I've tried so hard to be good, but I can't."
"It is hard to be good, and—" I hesitated.
"And what?"
"Will you pardon an impudence?"
"Yes, if it's not too bad."
"Hard to be good and beautiful."
Her face was turned from me, but I saw a red tint rise and spread over her neck. She spoke without looking at me, and her voice was steady and deep. "I helped you to set a trap and then walked into it, and therefore I've no right to feel offended, but if my treatment of you leads up to such compliments, I must change it."
"No!" I cried, abashed; and the negro on his knees at a tulip bed, down the path, looked up at me. "It was simply a jest; there has never been anything in your manner to warrant it. Let me tell you that at times I am a barbarian; I lose respect for polite customs. I have known ladies who liked to be told that they were beautiful—women who were charmed to have their pictures in a magazine among a collection of "types" celebrated for beauty. I—" was she laughing at me? She was.