“Agatha tells me that you are going with Marion,” continued Quarrier. “As long as Marion has chosen to make herself conspicuous there is nothing to be said. But do you think it very good taste for you to figure publicly on the sawdust with an eccentric girl like Marion?”
“I see nothing conspicuous about a girl's judging a few dogs,” said Sylvia, merely from an irritable desire to contradict.
“It's bad taste and bad form,” remarked Quarrier coldly; “and Agatha thought it a mistake for you to go there with her.”
“Agatha's opinions do not concern me.”
“Perhaps mine may have some weight.”
“Not the slightest.”
He said patiently: “This is a public show; do you understand? Not one of those private bench exhibitions.”
“I understand. Really, Howard, you are insufferable at times.”
“Do you feel that way?”
“Yes, I do. I am sorry to be rude, but I do feel that way!” Flushed, impatient, she looked him squarely between his narrowing, woman's eyes: “I do not care for you very much, Howard, and you know it. I am marrying you with a perfectly sordid motive, and you know that, too. Therefore it is more decent—if there is any decency left in either of us—to interfere with one another as little as possible, unless you desire a definite rupture. Do you?”