"Yes, he's so clever that he's distrustful. Now, for instance, he'd never believe in a woman like me."
"Oh—" he began, in a tone of energetic protest.
"No, he wouldn't," she interrupted, quietly. "To the end of time he would judge me by the past. He would label me 'woman to beware of' and my most innocent actions, my most impulsive attempts to show forth my true and better self he would entirely misinterpret, brilliant man though he is. Nigel, believe me, we women know!"
"But, then, surely you must dislike Isaacson very much!"
"On the contrary, I like him."
"I can't understand that."
"I don't require of him any of the splendid things that—well, that I do require of you, because I could never care for him. If he were to play me false, even if he were to hate me a thousand times more than he does, it wouldn't upset me, because I could never care for him."
"You think Isaacson hates you!" he exclaimed.
He had forgotten the gold of the sunset, the liquid gold of the river. He saw only her, thought only of what she was saying, thinking.
"Nigel, tell me the truth. Do you think he likes me?"