“What _do_ I want?” She looked at Wallingford with sincere appeal, slightly humourous, but earnest.
“I once thought that you wanted to be a real woman. But ever since your mother took you abroad to fill her own and your head with foreign notions I’ve been losing faith. What do you want now? Why, the trash you’re buying.”
“Joe, how can you think I’d sell myself?”
“Why not? It’s generally regarded as a reputable transaction--unless one is vulgar enough to sell out for the mere necessaries of life. Oh, I’m not criticising you, Kitty. Perhaps I’d sell myself if I could get any sort of price. Never having been tempted, I can’t say what I’d do.”
“Please don’t talk in that way, even in jest. It isn’t true. I know it isn’t true. And it’s knowing that that makes me----” She hesitated, then went on--“despise myself! It’s of no use to lie to _you_, Joe. I’m glad there’s somebody I can’t lie to, somebody that sees into me and forces me to look at myself as I am. And sometimes I _hate_ you for it. Yes, I hate you for it _now_!” She was sitting very erect upon her horse, her head thrown back, tears of anger in her eyes.
“Hate?” He shook his head teasingly at her. “I envy you. I’ve tried every other emotion, and I’d like to try that. But I can’t. I can’t hate even Frothingham. On the contrary, I like him. If you must have a title, you’ve got to take a husband with it. And I must say, I think you’ll be able to harness Frothingham down to a fairly reliable family horse.”
“How can you jest so coarsely about such a serious matter?” she exclaimed indignantly.
“But is it? What does it matter whom you marry, so long as you have no purpose in life other than to make a show and to induce shallow people to admire you and envy you for the things you’ve got that can be bought and sold? It’s better, on the whole, isn’t it, my friend, that you should carry out these purposes through a foreigner, and in a foreign country, than that you should spoil some promising American and be a bad influence here?”
“You are cruel, Joe. And I thought you’d sympathise with me, and help me!”
There was a pause, then he demanded abruptly: “What does your father say?”
She flushed--partly at the memory of the interview with her father, partly through shame in recollecting that she had led Frothingham to believe she had not told him. “He said--but why should I tell you?”