Silvette rose from the table and strolled over toward him.
"Are you really glad to know us?" she asked curiously. "We've heard that New Yorkers are not celebrated for their enthusiasm over poor relatives from the outer darkness."
"New Yorkers," he said, "are not different from any other creatures segregated in a self-imposed and comfortable captivity. People who have too much of anything are spoiled to that extent—ignorant to that degree—selfish and prejudiced according to the term of their imprisonment. All over the world it is the same; the placidity of self-approval and self-absorption is the result of local isolation. We're not stupid; we merely have so much to look at that we don't care what may take place outside our front gate. But if anybody opens our gate and comes in, he'll have no trouble, because he'll be as much of a New Yorker as anybody really is."
Silvette laid her head on one side and, drawing the heavy burnished braid of hair over her left shoulder, rebraided the end absently.
"Is it," she inquired, "because we are merely attractive that you mentioned the relationship?"
"'Is it because we are merely attractive that you mentioned the relationship?'"
"I'm afraid it's—partly that," he admitted, reddening and glancing askance at Diana.
"Stop tormenting him!" said Diana. "He's candid, anyhow. It's very fortunate all around, anyway," she added naïvely; though exactly why she considered it fortunate to meet a man with two dollars in his pocket and the legal right to evict her, she did not explain to herself.
Silvette, caressing her braid with deft fingers, mused aloud: "It's very noble of him to claim relationship with two poverty-stricken old maids from the Pacific coast. Don't you think so, Diane?" And she glanced up with a bewitching smile that had in it a glint of malice.