“Why, of course it is! The people were just as nice as you, really—rather nicer in fact—the only difference is a mere question of having studied Browning, and Darwin, and a lot of musty old German and French writers, whom, I’ll be bound to say, you don’t half understand.” “Possibly not. But they have a way of developing the mind.” “Developing the mind!” scornfully. “What’s the matter with my mind?—it develops itself. I don’t pore over musty books.” “Perhaps you are naturally more gifted,” with light satire. “Sarcasm is wasted on me,” she retorted. “It flows off like water from a duck’s back. Why not tell me straight I’m an ignoramus? Just as I tell you straight that all your learning and experience does not give you the right to think yourself so superior to other people, and give yourself such airs.” “You are very outspoken,” smiling a little in spite of himself. “Yes; but I can take plain speaking, too, so if you want to have your revenge, fire away. I know that I’ve got a snub nose and no complexion, and am always more or less untidy, because I’ve been told so often, but you can tell me again if you like.” “I’d rather set you an example in good manners.” “That’s good,” appreciating it at once. “Besides,” he added slyly, “I don’t see that it isn’t just as bad to be proud of a snub nose and untidiness, as of a beautiful nose or book learning, and from the way you speak you positively revel in them.” “You have me again,” she replied frankly. “I guess we’ll be friends for ten minutes and you shall show me your views.” They sat down, and he opened an enormous album, but after the first few pages she looked up at him entreatingly, and said with a delightful little air of pathos: “I’m so sorry, but if you only knew how I hate sitting still. I—I’m just dying to prowl round, and look at all the queer things on the walls.” He closed the book with a laugh, and she sprang up at once, saying: “I’ll look at the views when I’m old and rheumaticky. You must save them for me,” and then she went into raptures over a beautiful case of foreign butterflies, afterward fingering with delight his guns and swords. “You ought to have been a man,” he said almost regretfully. “Why, of course I ought. I’ve known that ever since they put Jack in trousers, and not me. But I guess I’ll have to stay a woman now to the end of the chapter, and make the best of it.” “Then you’re sorry?” he asked, with interest. “Sorry!” she repeated impressively. “Oh, yes, I’m that all right, but I don’t believe in crying over spilt milk.” He watched her silently a moment.