“But everyone does, my dear child.” Bylant smiled indulgently as he took out his pipe. “It is the common lot, although nothing distresses the ego more than to be reminded of it. But it is type accentuated, raised to the nth degree, that makes the individual. You are like my mother in certain respects, in others not at all, and yet you are the only person I have ever met who reminded me of her. If you had been brought up here at Carteret Manor the resemblance would be more striking still, but the plus and the minus make you yourself and no one else. Don’t writhe under the apprehension that your exact counterpart exists anywhere else in the world! . . . On the other hand, if the conditions had been reversed, I don’t doubt that my mother would have been, at your age, almost precisely what you are today.” Gita had been introduced to a new sensation. Titillated vanity conquered pique. She had heard of the none too subtle methods of the American male and eyed Bylant warily, then concluded he was harmless, and smiled encouragingly. “I suppose, on the whole, I should be flattered,” she said. “And your mother seems to have been one of the individuals. How was she brought up?” “In the most orthodox manner possible. A beautiful high-spirited intelligent girl, she was educated partly in France, partly in New York, and came out inevitably at eighteen. She had a winter of intoxicating belledom and then married my father, who was her complement in looks, being even lighter than I am, had that air of intense reserve that suggests unfathomable depths, and the most charming manners. It was blind surrender to the race-urge with the mental accompaniment of an infant rooting in the proper place for nourishment. All the old-timers are horrified at this new license of young people, but at least they will avoid one mistake of their forerunners. They know exactly what is the matter with them.