“Mary, it seems very strange and unnatural that you two—you and Constance—should be dear to me, and that you should not also know and love each other.”
“You are wasting your words, Fan. I shall never know her, and we should not love each other. I have seen her once, and have no wish to see her again. Oil and vinegar will not mix.”
“It is not a question of oil and vinegar, Mary, but of two women—”
“So much the worse—I hate women.”
“Two women, both beautiful, both clever, and yet so different! Which do you think sweetest and most beautiful—rose or stephanotis?”
“Don't be a silly flatterer, Fan. She is beautiful, I know, because I saw her; and I was not mistaken when I knew that her beauty would enslave you.”
“She was beautiful, Mary, and I hope that she will be so again. Now she is only a wreck of the Constance you saw at Eyethorne. But more beautiful than you she never was, Mary.”
“Flattery, flattery, flattery!”
“Which of those two flowers are you like, and which is she like? Let me tell you what I think. You are most like the rose, Mary—that is to me the sweetest and most beautiful of all flowers.”
Mary turned away, shaking the caressing hand off with a gesture of scorn.