"To begin with," she began, quietly, dreading her task, "we as a people are selfish. We are isolated here--are far from the center of things--but only certain things. We are quite our own center in certain other ways. But we are selfish as regards advancement, and being selfish in this way--being what we are and where we are--we live solely for that advancement--for the privilege of doing what we will, and of knowing! It is the first law of the country down here--of my people! We have aims and aspirations and courage all peculiar to ourselves. And when we meet your type, as I met you, we come--(Now, stop me when I get too severe!)--we come to know our own values a little better--to respect ourselves, perhaps--though perhaps, too, I shouldn't say it--a little more. Not that you lack virtues, you Easterners, but they differ from ours--and probably only in kind. And exactly what your type is you yourself have made plain to me during our many little trips together in the saddle. And--and now I fear I must become even more personal," she broke off. "And I am very sorry that I must. Though I know you will forgive me. You will, won't you?" And she looked up at him wistfully. "You thought it might benefit you to know. This is only my opinion. Others may not see it this way. But I am giving it for what it is, and I am giving it only because you asked it and have asked it repeatedly." He roused himself. "Go on," he said, with evident forced lightness. "I see your viewpoint perfectly." "Well," she resumed, hurriedly, "you lack ambition--a real ambition. You have ridden horses, played tennis, idled about clubs. You were a coddled and petted child, a pampered and spoiled youth. You attended a dozen schools, and, to use your own language, were 'canned' out of all of them. Which about sums up your activities. You have idled your time away, and you give every promise of continuing. I regret that I must say that, but I regret more deeply that it is true. You have many admirable qualities. You have the greatest of all qualities--power for sincere love. But in the qualities which make one acceptable down here--Wait! I'll change that. In the qualities which would make one acceptable to me you are lacking to a very considerable degree. And it is just there that you fill me with the greatest doubt--doubt so grave, indeed, that I cannot--and I use the verb advisedly--cannot permit myself to like you in the way you want me to like you." Again he bestirred himself. "What is that, please? What is that quality?"