"But he used to be so fond of you," she expostulated feebly.
Elisabeth shrugged her shoulders.

"Oh, I suppose he likes me now, in his cold, self-satisfied way: it isn't that.

What I complain of is that he doesn't admire me enough, and I do so love to be admired." "Do you mean he doesn't think you are pretty ?" Felicia always had to have things fully explained to her; excess of imagination could never lead her astray, whatever it might do to her friend.
"Of course not; I don't see how he could, considering that I'm not: women don't expect men to admire them for things that they don't possess," replied Elisabeth, who had still much to learn.

"What I mean is he doesn't realize how clever I am--he despises me just as he used to despise me when I was a little girl and he was a big boy--and that is awfully riling when you know you are clever." "Is it?
I would much rather a man liked me than thought I was clever." "I wouldn't; anybody can like you, but it takes a clever person to appreciate cleverness.

I have studied myself thoroughly, and I have come to the conclusion that I need appreciation far more than affection: I'm made like that." "I don't understand you.