“I know something about dogs,” said Clarice. “That’s what I’m really talking about, only I’m substituting offices for kennels. Well, blue ribbons aren’t earned, you know. The quality that wins them is there from the beginning. Your other puppies get the same food and the same care. But they don’t earn the ribbon even though they are twice as clever and as strong as the dog that does. Isn’t there an artificial standard for getting ahead in an artificial city? Well--diligence and mind are natural things, the result of natural energies. And what have natural energies to do with artificial standards? I tell you, you must fit in from the beginning. If you don’t, you’ll be like the vast majority of dogs in a kennel--an underdog.” Quincy felt embarassed. He avoided Clarice’s eyes. But she smiled into him. “Why did you come and join the kennel, my faun friend?” “Why did you?” he flashed back at her. “I am happy here.” “Well, so am I.” “It’s the happiness of a bravado. Wait till it wears off. But no, Quincy--don’t wait! You’ll be used to life here, by then. Used to it, that is, enough not to be able to get used to any other. Used to nothing--in other words.” “You are a very wise girl, Clarice.” “I was wiser than you, even that summer. That was why I was willing to like you--willing to like you, Quincy, as much as you cared to ask for;--but not willing to see you in New York! In fact, _you_ were exceedingly foolish.” The young man leaned back in his chair (a posture denoting ease) and looked at her. Four years had at once subdued and strengthened her. Her hair was a duller gold and her eyes looked grey in the shaded light, whereas the gleam of the summer sun had then brought out the spring in them--the green. Her body was no less slender, no taller. But her mastership had calmed it, given it a composure in unison with the firm cut of her dainty mouth and the regular line of her small nose. Quincy had not liked her hands, since they had been both short and soft. Now they seemed lighter, freer, longer. They seemed to have the power now to poise and balance. They had been the paws of a rather destructive savage; they and her eyes had altered most. Quincy was awed, not by herself but by the feeling of aloofness that stood between them, making their past of comradeship unreal. Yet the dash and spice of this made her all the more desirable, despite the accent of mentorship and of superiority that now seemed natural to her. And then, from this easeful figure so composed before him, his mind glanced back--she was still too hard for piercing--and fell upon himself. Again, it seemed to Quincy that he had made a mistake. Again, it became easier to turn against himself, plough there, rend there, than give calm heed to the force that did this and make his venture elsewhere.