"What have they done?" asked Louise eagerly.
"They? It's your dear Miss Durand," said Clare, with a grim smile. "I'm very angry with her, Louise. She's been behaving badly."
Louise's eyes widened: she looked alarmed and distressed.
"Oh, but Miss Hartill--she hasn't! She couldn't! What has she done?"
"Shall I tell you?" Clare leaned forward mysteriously.
"She wouldn't copy me and be an egoist. And I wanted her to, rather badly, Louise. There, that's all! You're none the wiser, are you? Never mind, you will be, some day. Don't look so worried, you funny child."
"Why do you call yourself such names? You're not an egoist? You can't be," cried Louise desperately.
"Can't I? Most people are. It's not a synonym for murderess! Stop frowning, child. Why, I don't believe you know what it means even. Do you know what an egoist is, Louise?"
"Sir Willoughby Patterne!" said Louise promptly.
"What next? I wish I'd had charge of you earlier. You shouldn't try so hard to say 'Humph,' little pig."
"Then what possesses you to steer your cockle-boat on to Meredith? Well--what do you think of him? What have you read?"
"About all. He's queer. He's not Dickens or Scott, of course----" Her tone deprecated.
"Of course not," said Clare, with grave sympathy.
"But I like him. I like Chloe. I like the sisters--you know--'Fine Shades and Nice Feeling'----"
"I don't know. They made me laugh. They're awfully real people. And I liked that book where the two gentlemen drink wine. 'Veuve' something."
"What on earth did you see in that?" Clare was amused.
"I don't know. I just liked them. Of course, I adore Shagpat."
"That I understand. It's a fairy tale to you, isn't it?"
"Not a proper one--only Arabian Nightsy."
"Well, heaps that one loves aren't. Grimm's and Hans Andersen's aren't, or even _The Wondrous Isles_. And, of course, none of the Lang books. I hate those. You know, proper fairy stories aren't easy to get. You have to dig. You get bits out of the notes in the Waverley Novels, and there's _Kilmeny_, and _The Celtic Twilight_, and _The Lore of Proserpine_, and Lemprière. Do you believe in fairies, Miss Hartill?"
"It depends on the mood I'm in," said Clare seriously, "and the place. Elves and electric railways are incompatible."