“Oh, Laura,” protested Page earnestly. “Don’t, don’t talk that way. You mustn’t. It’s wicked.”

Laura put her head in the air.

“I wouldn’t give any man that much satisfaction. I think that is the way it ought to be. A man ought to love a woman more than she loves him. It ought to be enough for him if she lets him give her everything she wants in the world. He ought to serve her like the old knights⁠—give up his whole life to satisfy some whim of hers; and it’s her part, if she likes, to be cold and distant. That’s my idea of love.”

“Yes, but they weren’t cold and proud to their knights after they’d promised to marry them,” urged Page. “They loved them in the end, and married them for love.”

“Oh, ‘love’!” mocked Laura. “I don’t believe in love. You only get your ideas of it from trashy novels and matinees. Girlie,” cried Laura, “I am going to have the most beautiful gowns. They’re the last things that Miss Dearborn shall buy for herself, and”⁠—she fetched a long breath⁠—“I tell you they are going to be creations.”