quite frankly, but without adding what I thought — that it was by all odds the silliest theory I had ever heard in my life.
“The mere fact that tastes differ,” said I, “seems to me to prove the contrary. Just by way of example, and with all the respect in the world for your taste, which I have no doubt is most excellent, I don’t suppose that you will endeavour to persuade me that I should actually prefer a wall-paper, or an ornament, of your choosing to one of my own.”
“No,” said Miss Berrith, with the oddest little smile imaginable, “that isn’t what I meant.”
“It is what you said,” I protested, somewhat peevishly.
She made no reply — which, of course, showed I had the best of it.
I am bound, however, to confess that, to a certain extent, I was afraid of her. There is something about a girl — even about a girl in whom one has no particular interest — which is profoundly disconcerting. If you have ever
