"Then—it is simply the desire of the friendless for a friend. Nothing else—nothing more subtle, nothing of effrontery; n-nothing worse. Do you believe me?"
"I don't understand—"
"Try to."
"Do you mean that you have differed with—"
"Him?" She laughed. "Oh, no; I was talking of real people, not of myths. And real people are not very friendly to me, always—not that they are disagreeable, you understand, only a trifle overcordial; and my most intimate friend kisses me a little too frequently. By the way, she has quite succumbed to you, I hear."
"Who do you mean?"
"Why, Rosamund."
He said something under his breath and looked at her impatiently.
"Didn't you know it?" she asked, smiling.
"Know what?"