"One in which I mean to win," she replied, slowly, meditatively. "Have
you not seen--How slow to perceive, even you, a reputedly clever man,
can be! I don't suppose there is a woman in the house who has not
detected the fact that I am in love with Stafford Orme, though I have
tried to hide it from them--and you will admit that I am not a bad
actress."

"In love with Stafford Orme!" His face darkened. "No, I did not know
it. Why---what the devil does he mean by not coming to me!" he broke
out angrily, harshly.

She smiled.

"He hasn't come to ask you for me, because--well, he doesn't want me,"
she said in a low voice.

"What!" he exclaimed below his breath. "Do you mean to tell me
that--that--Why, you can't have the shamelessness to care for the man
without--until--"

She broke in upon his burst of indignation with a low, clear laugh, and
there was no shame in her voice or eyes, as she said: "Would it be so shameful if I have? My dear father, you and I should
differ on that point. We are told that we are made for love and to be
loved, that it is our proper and natural destiny. Why, then, should we
be ashamed of it. None of us are in reality; we only pretend to be. It
is part of the world's system of hypocrisy to assume an incapacity for
loving a man until he has asked you; to pretend an utter indifference
until he has said the magic words, 'I love you.' As if love could wait,
ever did wait, ever will! Anyway, mine did not! And I am no different
to other women--only more candid."