it's hateful."

"I cannot agree with you."

"Do you like having a lot of yourself?"

"No; I like yourself."

She laughed a little; in her heart she was pleased, but she only said,
"I don't; I know what it really is."

"And I do not?"

"No," she answered; then, with a sudden determination to tell him the
worst, and to deal in this newly admired honesty, she said, "I will
tell you, though. You remember my father? You may have politely
forgotten him, or smoothed out your recollections of him--remember him
now; he is just about what you thought him."

"Indeed?" the tone was that one of polite interest, which she had come
to know so well. "Your shoe is unfastened; may I tie it for you? The
question is," he went on, as he stooped to her shoe, "what did I think
of your father? I'm sure I don't know, and I hardly think you are in
a position to, either."

She moved impatiently, so that the shoelace slipped out of his hand,
and he had to begin all over again. It was a very shabby shoe; at
another time she might have minded about it, and even refused to have
it fastened on that account; to-night she did not care, which was
perhaps as well, for Rawson-Clew knew long ago all about the