ideal as any one else she knew. He led germans divinely. But he was
selfish, and she had never admired him as much as another man, who was
less showy, but was, she knew, more of a man: Norman Wentworth, a bold
swimmer, a good horseman, and a leader of their set. It suddenly
occurred to her now how much more like this man Norman Wentworth was
than Ferdy Wickersham, and following her thought of the two, she
suddenly stepped up on a higher level and was conscious of a certain
elation, much like that she had had the day she had climbed up before
Gordon Keith on the out-jutting rock and looked far down over the wide
expanse of forest and field, to where his home had been.

She sat for a little while in deep reflection. Presently she said, quite
gravely and a little shyly:

"You know, I am not a bit what you think I am. Why, you treat me as if I
were a superior being. And I am not; I am a very matter-of-fact girl."

He interrupted her with a gesture of dissent, his eyes full of light.

"Nonsense! You don't know me, you don't know men, or you would know that
any girl is the superior of the best man," he reiterated.

"You don't know girls," she retorted.

"I know one, at least," he said, with a smile that spoke his admiration.

"I am not sure that you do," she persisted, speaking slowly and very
seriously. She was gazing at him in a curious, reflective way.

"The one I know is good enough for me." He leaned over and shyly took