"When I help all the other little boys at the table, and don't look at the nice heart-shaped cake I want myself? It's frosted, and got little pink things all over the top. There! don't drop the corners of your mouth. If I were asked what kind of a world I'd like to live in, I'd say one where the corners of Mary's mouth keep quirked up all the time. Let's talk about Marshby's picture. It's going to be your Marshby."
"What do you mean?"
"Not Marshby's Marshby—yours."
"You're not going to play some dreadful joke on him?" Her eyes were blazing under knotted brows.
"Mary!" Wilmer spoke gently, and though the tone recalled her, she could not forbear at once, in her hurt pride and loyalty.
"You're not going to put him into any masquerade?—to make him anything but what he is?"
"Mary, don't you think that's a little hard on an old chum?"
"I can't help it." Her cheeks were hot, though now it was with shame. "Yes, I am mean, jealous, envious. I see you with everything at your feet—"
"Not quite everything," said Jerome. "I know it makes you hate me."