“Never?”

“Not if I feel about it as I do now.  I’ve never had enough play, Rita.  I’ve missed all those years that you’ve had—­that most girls have had.  I never had any boys to play with.  That’s really all I am doing now—­playing with grown-up boys.  That’s all I am—­merely a grown-up girl with a child’s heart.”

“A heart of gold,” murmured Rita, “you darling.”

“Oh, it isn’t all gold by any means!  It’s full of silver whims and brassy selfishness and tin meannesses and senseless ideas—­full of fiery, coppery mischief, too; and, sometimes, I think, a little malice—­perhaps a kind of diluted deviltry.  But it’s a hungry heart, dear, hungry for laughter and companionship and friendship—­with a capacity for happiness!  Ah, you don’t know, dear—­you never can know how capable I am of friendship and happiness!”

“And—­sentiment?”

“I—­don’t—­know.”

“Better watch out, sweetness!”

“I do.”

Rita said thoughtfully, swinging in her hammock: 

“Sentiment, for us, is no good.  I’ve learned that.”

“You?”

“Of course.”

“How?”

“Experience,” said Rita, carelessly.  “Every girl is bound to have it.  She doesn’t have to hunt for it, either.”

“Were you ever in—­love?” asked Valerie, curiously.

“Now, dear, if I ever had been happily in love is it likely you wouldn’t know it?”

“I suppose so,” said Valerie....  She added, musingly: 

“I wonder what will become of me if I ever fall in love.”

“If you’ll take my advice you’ll run.”

“Run?  Where?  For goodness’ sake!”

“Anywhere until you became convalescent.”

“That would be a ridiculous idea,” remarked Valerie so seriously that Rita began to laugh: 

“You sweet thing,” she said, “it’s a million chances that you’d be contented only with the sort of man who wouldn’t marry you.”

“Because I’m poor, you mean?  Or because I am working for my living?”

“Both—­and then some.”

“What else?”

“Why, the only sort of men who’d attract you have come out of their own world of their own accord to play about for a while in our world.  They can go back; that is the law.  But they can’t take us with them.”

“They’d be ashamed, you mean?”

“Perhaps not.  A man is likely enough to try.  But alas! for us, if we’re silly enough to go.  I tell you, Valerie, that their world is full of mothers and sisters and feminine relatives and friends who could no more endure us than they would permit us to endure them.  It takes courage for a man to ask us to go into that world with him; it takes more for us to do it.  And our courage is vain.  We stand no chance.  It means a rupture of all his relations; and a drifting—­not into our world, not into his, but into a horrible midway void, peopled by derelicts....  I know, dear, believe me.  And I say that to fall in love is no good, no use, for us.  We’ve been spoiled for what we might once have found satisfactory.  We are people without a class, you and I.”