(_Miss Armstrong vindicates herself by scorning._)
You are a tissue of phrases. You feel only words. You love! What
mockery to hear you handle the worn, old words! You have secluded
yourself in careful isolation from the human world you seem to despise.
You have no right to its passions and solaces. Incarnate selfishness,
dear friend, I suspect you are. You would not permit the disturbance of
a ripple in the contemplative lake of your life such as love and
marriage might bring.
Pray what right may you have to stew me in a saucepan up on your roof,
and to send me flavors of myself done up nicely into little packages
labelled deceitfully "love"? It is lucky that this time you have come
across a woman who has played the game before, and can meet you point
by point. But I am too weary to argue with a man who carries two-edged
words, flattery on one side and sneers on the reverse. Mark this one
thing, nevertheless: if I should decide to sell myself advantageously
next season I should be infinitely better than you,--for I am only a
woman.