Bessy’s lip trembled and the colour sprang to her face; but she answered with a flash of irritation: “Why doesn’t he look for me there, then—if he still wants to find me?”
“Ah—it’s for him to look here—to find himself here,” Justine murmured.
“Well, he never comes here! That’s his answer.”
“He will—he will! Only, when he does, let him find you.”
“Find me? I don’t understand. How can he, when he never sees me? I’m no more to him than the carpet on the floor!”
Justine smiled again. “Well—be that then! The thing is to be.”
“Under his feet? Thank you! Is that what you mean to marry for? It’s not what husbands admire in one, you know!”
“No.” Justine stood up with a sense of stealing discouragement. “But I don’t think I want to be admired{bar|2}}"
“Ah, that’s because you know you are!" broke from the depths of the other’s bitterness.
The tone smote Justine, and she dropped into the seat at her friend’s side, silently laying a hand on Bessy’s feverishly-clasped fingers.
“Oh, don’t let us talk about me,” complained the latter, from whose lips the subject was never long
[ 230 ]
