“Oh! I’m not thinking about your tongue. I am trying to settle whether we are breaking the laws of etiquette in thus drinking tea together.” “Oh, no! The curates always do it, and they are more correct than anybody. They like you to offer them tea. Aunt used to say so.” “Then we are just as we should be?” “Yes. Does Lady Flamington never come to have tea with you?” “No; I generally go there.” “Well, it’s just the same.” “Who told you of Lady Flamington?” “Mariana. Mariana does not give you a very good character, you know?” “And is your strength of mind great enough to withstand her libels?” “Well, yes. I like to form my own opinions. Besides, the best fun is, Mariana does not understand she’s saying anything against you. She tells me all kinds of things, taking you quite for granted.” “When do you find time for these interesting conversations?” “At night—and sometimes in the early morning. She never neglects her work to gossip. But when she talks it’s always to the point.” “Rosalie, if you wish to possess any fascination, which is another word for beauty, you must learn to keep all your thoughts, opinions, and feelings to yourself. It is not conducive to interest to be told of a person’s state too freely. One must be left to find it for oneself.” “Do you find me uninteresting?” “Very much so. I do not know another man of my acquaintance on Lucifram who would tolerate your company for half an hour.” Her eyes travelled to his with a very real and living pain in them. “I don’t know anything about men except that they’re very clever. But I’d be quite content to earn the good graces of the women.” “Why either?” “Oh, because one must be friendly somewhere. It would be awful to have no friends at all, men or women.” “How many friends would you need for happiness?” “As many as I could get. You see, when you’re poor you can’t expect to have many.” “And when you’re rich you have less.” “No, indeed. I’m sure you have heaps of friends, Mr. Barringcourt.” He laughed in a harsh, dry sort of way. “You flatter me. In reality, I have no more friends than you.” “But Lady Flamington?—Why, Mariana says she is in love with you.” Mr. Barringcourt bit his lip; but the smile debarred access there travelled to his eyes. “Well, what if she is in love with me, as you call it. That makes her one of my worst enemies.” “Oh, no! To love anybody is to be their best and biggest friend.” “I grant if the love be disinterested; but then, how often is it so?” “What does disinterested mean?” “I don’t know, I’m sure,” he answered impatiently; “you must look it out in a dictionary.” “I’m sorry,” Rosalie answered meekly, “but I thought disinterested meant unselfish—and I can’t understand love being anything else.” “Can’t you? Then you have much to learn. Why do you love the Serpent?” The question came with unexpected rapidity. “I don’t. I—I—I—” Another pause upon the thrice repeated unlucky vowel—and Rosalie shivered from head to foot quite coldly.