"I say, is there really something about M—Marshington that makes girls hate it?"
She blushed to the white parting between her smooth, brown wings of hair.
"Yes," she gasped softly, pleating the tablecloth between her fingers. "But I couldn't possibly explain to you."
"By Jove, I wish you would!"
"But it doesn't concern you," she said more softly. Neither of them took any notice of the meal before them. They faced each other like antagonists.
"It concerns me damned well," he muttered.
"You'd better ask Clare, then. She might tell you."
"Thank you—I don't need to ask Clare's opinions."
"No. I suppose not. I suppose that you wouldn't mind much either what she thought: opinions of women don't usually matter much to people like you."
He looked at her, his face drawn to an expression of pained surprise.