"I mean—What do you care for it, anyway!" he cried, in self-scornful exasperation.
"I know," she said thoughtfully, "that my voice isn't like me; I'm not good enough for it. It ought to be Juliet Bingham's—"
"No, no!" he interrupted, with a sort of disgust that seemed not to displease her, "I can't imagine it!"
"But we can't any of us have everything, and she's got enough as it is. She's a head higher than I am, and she wants to have her way ten times as bad."
"I didn't mean that," Langbourne began. "I—but you must think me enough of a simpleton already."
"Oh, no, not near," she declared. "I'm a good deal of a simpleton myself at times."
"It doesn't matter," he said desperately; "I love you."
"Ah, that belongs to the time when you thought I looked differently."
"I don't want you to look differently. I—"
"You can't expect me to believe that now. It will take time for me to do that."