"What a fine motto," he said guilelessly. "And you interpret it as though it were your own."
"I like the sound of it. There is no compromise in it."
"Why not assume it for your own? 'There is never peace with me; my desire is always war!' Why not adopt it?"
"Do you mean that such a militant motto suits me?" she asked, amused, and caught the half-laughing, half malicious glimmer in his eyes, and knew in an instant he had divined her attitude toward himself, and toward to her own self, too—war on them both, lest they succumb to the friendship that threatened. Silent, preoccupied, she went back with him through the armoury, through the hallway, into a rather commonplace dining-room, where a table had already been laid for two.
Desboro jingled a small silver bell, and presently luncheon was announced. She ate with the healthy appetite of the young, and he pretended to. Several cats and dogs of unaristocratic degree came purring and wagging about the table, and he indulged them with an impartiality that interested her, playing no favourites, but allotting to each its portion, and serenely chastising the greedy.
"What wonderful impartiality!" she ventured. "I couldn't do it; I'd be sure to prefer one of them."
"Why entertain preference for anything or anybody?"
"That's nonsense."
"No; it's sense. Because, if anything happens to one, there are the others to console you. It's pleasanter to like impartially."
She was occupied with her fruit cup; presently she glanced up at him: