"Because, you mean, it's just what they're supposed to do?" She
looked at him, flushed again now; with which, after another
hesitation, "Do young men tell?" she asked.
He gave a short laugh. "How do I know, my dear, what young men
do?"
"Then how do _I_ know, father, what vulgar girls do?"
"I see--I see," he quickly returned.
But she spoke the next moment as if she might, odiously, have
been sharp. "What happens at least is that where there's a great
deal of pride there's a great deal of silence. I don't know, I
admit, what _I_ should do if I were lonely and sore--for what
sorrow, to speak of, have I ever had in my life? I don't know
even if I'm proud--it seems to me the question has never come up
for me."
"Oh, I guess you're proud, Mag," her father cheerfully
interposed. "I mean I guess you're proud enough."
"Well then, I hope I'm humble enough too. I might, at all events,
for all I know, be abject under a blow. How can I tell? Do you
realise, father, that I've never had the least blow?"