"You know," she said, forcing a little laugh, "I am rather wonderful, to be so honest with a man like you. There's so much about you that I don't care for."
He laughed, enchanted, still retaining her hands between his own, the palms joined together, flat.
"You're so wonderful," he said, "that you make the most wonderful masterpiece in the Desboro collection look like a forgery."
She strove to speak lightly again: "Even the gilding on my hair is real. You didn't think so once, did you?"
"You're all real. You are the most real thing I've ever seen in the world!"
She tried to laugh: "You mustn't believe that I've never before been real when I've been with you. And I may not be real again, for a long time. Make the most of this moment of expansive honesty, Mr. Desboro. I'll remember presently that you are an hereditary enemy."
"Have I ever acted that part?"
"Not toward me."
He reddened: "Toward whom?"
"Oh," she said, with sudden impatience, "do you suppose I have any illusions concerning the sort of man you are? But what do I care, as long as you are nice to me?" she laughed, more confidently. "Men!" she repeated. "I know something about them! And, knowing them, also, I nevertheless mean to make a friend of one of them. Do you think I'll succeed?"