“I know why you are going,” she said.
“I am glad to hear my explanations have not been lost.”
“Your explanations are all nonsense. You are going for another reason.”
“Well,” said Bernard, “if you insist upon it, it ‘s because you are too sharp with me.”
“It ‘s because of me. So much as that is true.” Bernard wondered what she was going to say—if she were going to be silly enough to allude to the most impudent of fictions; then, as she stood opening and closing her blue fan and smiling at him in the fire-light, he felt that she was silly enough for anything. “It ‘s because of all the talk—it ‘s because of Gordon. You need n’t be afraid of Gordon.”
“Afraid of him? I don’t know what you mean,” said Bernard, gravely.
Blanche gave a little laugh.
“You have discovered that people are talking about us—about you and me. I must say I wonder you care. I don’t care, and if it ‘s because of Gordon, you might as well know that he does n’t care. If he does n’t care, I don’t see why I should; and if I don’t, I don’t see why you should!”
“You pay too much attention to such insipid drivel in even mentioning it.”
“Well, if I have the credit of saying what I should n’t—to you or to any one else—I don’t see why I should n’t have the advantage too. Gordon does n’t care—he does n’t care what I do or say. He does n’t care a pin for me!”