"In fact, my feelings towards you seem to be utterly and damnably bad," he said energetically, although forced to keep his voice low.
"If I weren't a selfish beast I should tell you to have nothing more to do with me.

And yet, Mary, in spite of the fact that I believe what I'm saying, I also believe that it's good we should know each other--the world being what it is, you see--" and by a nod of his head he indicated the other occupants of the room, "for, of course, in an ideal state of things, in a decent community even, there's no doubt you shouldn't have anything to do with me--seriously, that is." "You forget that I'm not an ideal character, either," said Mary, in the same low and very earnest tones, which, in spite of being almost inaudible, surrounded their table with an atmosphere of concentration which was quite perceptible to the other diners, who glanced at them now and then with a queer mixture of kindness, amusement, and curiosity.
"I'm much more selfish than I let on, and I'm worldly a little--more than you think, anyhow.

I like bossing things--perhaps that's my greatest fault.

I've none of your passion for--" here she hesitated, and glanced at him, as if to ascertain what his passion was for--"for the truth," she added, as if she had found what she sought indisputably.
"I've told you I'm a liar," Ralph repeated obstinately.
"Oh, in little things, I dare say," she said impatiently.

"But not in real ones, and that's what matters.