He's the sort that would believe that, I suppose--the sort that would write a political document in blood if he didn't have ink." "Oh, don't!" she protested.

There was a grain of truth in the epigram, but she resented it the more keenly for this.
"Well, I may have intended it as a compliment," rejoined Vetch gaily.
"He would take it that way, I reckon.

And, anyhow, you have heard him make worse flings at me." She coloured, admitting and denying at the same time, the truth of his words.

"You could never understand each other.

You are so different." He looked at her gravely; but even gravity could not wholly drive the gleam of humour from his eyes.