"Do you think I'd tell you?" she managed to say. Then her self-possession returned in a flash of exasperation, but she controlled that, too, and laughed defiantly, confronting him with pretty, insolent face uptilted.
"What do you want to know about me? That I'm in the way of being ultimately damned like all the rest of you?" she said. "Well, I am. I'm taking chances. Some people take their chances in one way—like you and Rosalie; some take them in another—as I do.... Once I was afraid to take any; now I'm not. Who was it said that self-control is only immorality afraid?"
"Will you tell me what is worrying you?" he persisted.
"No, but I'll tell you what annoys me if you like."
"What?"
"Fear of notoriety."
"Notoriety?"
"Certainly—not for myself—for my house."
"Is anybody likely to make it notorious?" he demanded, colouring up.
"Ask yourself.... I haven't the slightest interest in your personal conduct"—there was a catch in her voice—"except when it threatens to besmirch my own home."