“Not at all!” cried Bessie, with a laugh that sounded very mocking and very unworthy to her friend. “He's all that you said, and worse. But he's more than you said, and better.”
“I don't understand,” said Mary, coldly.
“He's very interesting; he's original; he's different!”
“Oh, every one says that.”
“And he doesn't flatter me, or pretend to think much of me. If he did, I couldn't bear him. You know how I am, Molly. He keeps me interested, don't you understand, and prowling about in the great unknown where he has his weird being.”
Bessie put her hand to her mouth, and laughed at Mary Enderby with her slanted eyes; a sort of Parisian version of a Chinese motive in eyes.
“I suppose,” her friend said, sadly, “you won't tell me more than you wish.”
“I won't tell you more than I know—though I'd like to,” said Bessie. She gave Mary a sudden hug. “You dear! There isn't anything of it, if that's what you mean.”
“But isn't there danger that there will be, Bessie?” her friend entreated.
“Danger? I shouldn't call it danger, exactly!”