Diana stood, hands clasped behind her back, staring at the rain. Suddenly she pivoted on her sandals.
"Yes, I am thinking of him. I'm thinking of him all the time."
"That is very unwise," said Silvette gently.
"I am thinking of him, but it's only thinking.... I like him. I never liked any man better, or as well, perhaps.... And I've known him three days. Give me a day or two grace, and I'll stop thinking about him."
"You were quite mad over young Inwood in Keno," mused Silvette.
"Yes.... I realize that I like men. I enjoy them; if I had my way, I'd carry on like the deuce with every man who took my fancy, before I come to the final decision and spoil life for myself."
"You carry on like the deuce now, sister," said Silvette, laughing.
"I don't do it enough," retorted Diana fiercely; "what have I got to look forward to, after all?—a homeless life of social employment, an old age of gossip and cards!—or, if I win out, a loveless middle age wearing some wealthy man's name and pearls, and all the rest dashed out—the brightness, the youth of things, the hope of things, children——"
"You don't want children!" exclaimed Silvette, horrified; "grubby little things! I thought you hated them!"
"Grubby little things," repeated the girl slowly; "so I do, in theory."