"With very few exceptions, Jacqueline. There are horrid, horrid ones, and nice, horrid ones, and dead ones and dead ones—but only a few nice, nice ones. I've known some. You think your Mr. Desboro is one, don't you?"
"I haven't thought about him——"
"Honestly, Jacqueline?"
"I tell you I haven't! He's nice to me. That's all I know."
"Is he too nice?"
"No. Besides, he's under his own roof. And it depends on a girl, anyway."
"Not always. If we behave ourselves we're dead ones; if we don't we'd better be. Isn't it a rotten deal, Jacqueline! Just one fresh man after another dropped into the discards because he gets too gay. And being employed by the kind who'd never marry us spoils us for the others. You could marry one of your clients, I suppose, but I never could in a million years."
"You and I will never marry such men," said Jacqueline coolly. "Perhaps we wouldn't if they asked us."
"You might. You're educated and bright, and—you look the part, with all the things you know—and your trips to Europe—and the kind of beauty yours is. Why not? If I were you," she added, "I'd kill a man who thought me good enough to hold hands with, but not good enough to marry."