days we were always such sticklers for the truth--for sincerity,
you know--weren't we?"

"I have no business to correct you," he said humbly. "I resigned
all my pretensions that morning in the old house."

"Well, so long as you love me still!" she exclaimed, with a little
mocking laugh. "That's the great thing, isn't it? I mean for me,
of course. I am greedy for love. It makes me feel so safe and
comfortable to think there are whole rows of men that love me.
When you have a great fortune you begin to appreciate the things
that money cannot buy."

"Oh, your money!" he said. That word in her mouth always stung
him.

"Well, you ought to hate my money," she remarked cheerfully. "It
queered you, didn't it? And then all rich people are detestable,
anyway--selfish to the core, and horrid. Do you know that
sometimes when I have flirted awfully with a man at a dinner or
somewhere, and the next day he telephones--and the telephone is in
the next room--I've just said: 'Oh, bother! tell him I'm out,'
rather than take the trouble to get up from my chair. And a nice
man, too!"

"I thought I might be treated the same way," he said.

"Then you thought wrong, Frank," she returned, with a sudden
change from her tone of flippancy and lightness. "I haven't sunk
quite as low as that, you know. I meant other people--I didn't