“Every one knows how little I care for Ned,” she answered, “but people say you do care for this little Western mouse.  I hate her.  She’s good and nice, and the kind of a girl men think it wise to marry, and just as different from me as she can be.  I do hate her—­and I hate myself too.”  And she covered her face with her hands.

“Come here, Christine,” said Riatt, without moving, and was rather surprised when she obeyed.  He made her sit down beside him, and taking her hands from her face, was astonished to find that she was really crying.

“Why, my dear child,” he said, in the most paternal manner he could manage.  “What is this all about?” And it was quite in the same note that Christine wept a moment on his shoulder.  Then she raised her head, with a return of her old brisk manner.

“I’m jealous,” she said.  “Oh, don’t suppose one can’t be jealous of people one doesn’t care for.  I could be jealous of any one when Nancy begins teasing me and making fun of me.  And I’m jealous too, because I’m sure she’s a nice girl and I’ve made such a mess of my life, and I deserve it all; but when you came in together, as if you had just been happily married, and I looked at Ned and thought how wretched I’m always going to be with him, and what silly things I shall undoubtedly do before I die—­”

“I hate to hear you talk like that.”

“Why should you care? She’ll never do silly things—­that’s clear.  Is that why you love her?”

“As a matter of fact I am not in love with Miss Lane.”

“My dear Max, there’s really no reason why you should deceive me about it.”

“That’s just what she said about you.”

“You mean”—­Christine sprang to her feet and gazed at him like an outraged empress—­“You mean that you told her that you didn’t love me?”

“I most assuredly did.”

“Max, how could you be so low, so despicable, so false?”

Riatt laughed.  “Well, it certainly was not false, Christine,” he said.  “It happens to be true, you know; and I felt I owed a measure of truth to a very old and very real friendship.  I told her nothing more than that—­I was engaged and not madly in love.”

Christine threw up her hands.  “The game is up,” she said.  “She’ll tell everybody, of course.”

“She’ll tell absolutely no one.”

“Because she’s perfect, I suppose?”

“Because she didn’t for one moment believe me.”

“Didn’t believe we were engaged?”

“Didn’t believe that any one could be engaged to so beautiful and charming a person as you are and not be in love with her.”

Christine’s manner softened slightly.  “She thinks me charming?”

“She thinks you irresistible, almost as irresistible as Laura thinks you; and she is trying to find out why I am so eager to deceive her in the matter.”

Christine clapped her hands, and executed a few steps.  “She’s jealous, too,” she cried.  “The perfect woman is jealous.  I never thought of her suffering, too.”