I am sure you would at once fall madly in love with her and also with her daughter, Miss Edith Fay-Wyman, such a sweet girl, and--" But here Margaret was unexpectedly, even rudely interrupted by Miss Wallingford, who looked at her indignantly.
"I never fall in love with women," stated that newly risen literary star abruptly, "why should I?
What does it amount to ?" "Oh, my dear," cried Margaret, "when you are a little older you will find that it amounts to very much.

There is a soul sympathy, and--" "I don't think that I care much about soul sympathy," stated Miss Wallingford, who was beginning to be angrily bewildered by her guest's long sentences, which so far seemed to have no point as far as she herself was concerned.
Margaret started a little.

Again the doubt seized her if she were not making a mistake, undertaking more than she could well carry through, for this shy authoress was fast developing unexpected traits.
However, Margaret, once she had started, was not easily turned back.
She was as persistently clinging as a sweet briar.
"Oh, my dear," she said, and her voice was like trickling honey, "only wait until you are a little older and you will find that you do care, care very, very much.

The understanding and sympathy of other women will become very sweet to you.

It is so pure and ennobling, so free from all material taint." "I have seen a great many women who were perfect cats," stated Miss Martha Wallingford.
"Wait until you are older," said Margaret again and her voice seemed fairly dissolving into some spiritual liquid of divine sweetness.
"Wait until you are older, my dear.