"I congratulate you.

I think he is--nice." "You also think he is too good for me," said Etta, with a little laugh.
There was something in that laugh--a ring of wounded vanity, the wounded vanity of a bad woman who is in the presence of her superior.
"No!" answered Maggie slowly, tracing the veins of the marble across the mantel-piece.

"No--o, not that." Etta looked up at her.

It was rather singular that she did not ask what Maggie did think.

Perhaps she was afraid of a certain British honesty which characterized the girl's thought and speech.