"Of course! They're my relations—how could I help being fond of them?" 

 "Oh—yes," answered Lawrence, vaguely.  "But they really are very nice—people." 

 "Why do you hesitate?" 

 "I don't know. I couldn't say 'very nice ladies,' could I? And I shouldn't exactly say 'very nice women'—and 'very nice people' sounds queer, somehow, doesn't it?" 

 "And you wouldn't say 'very nice old maids'—" 

 "Certainly not!" 

 "No. It wouldn't be civil to me, nor kind to them. The truth is generally unkind and usually rude. Besides, they love you." 

 "Me?" 

 "Yes. They rave about you, and your looks, and your manners, and your conversation, and your talents." 

 "The Dickens! I'm flattered! But it's always the wrong people who like one." 

 "Why the wrong people?" asked Fanny Trehearne, not looking at him. 

 "Because all the liking in the world from people one doesn't care for can't make up for the not liking of the one person one does care for." 

 "Oh—in that way. It's rash to care for only one person. It's putting all one's eggs into one basket." 

 "What an extraordinary sentiment!" 

 "I didn't mean it for sentiment." 

 "No—I should think not! Quite the contrary, I should say." 

 "Quite," affirmed Fanny, gravely. 

 "Quite?" 

 "Yes—almost quite." 

 "Oh—'almost' quite?" 

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