"Dear me! How stupid of me! I forgot that special use of the
word. Yes?"
"The girl likes him pretty well, and her people approve of him
and all that, you know."
"That simplifies the problem," said the philosopher, nodding
again.
"But she's not in--in love with him, you know. She doesn't
REALLY care for him--MUCH. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly. It is a most natural state of mind."
"Well, then, suppose that there's another man--what are you
writing?"
"I only put down (B.)--like that," pleaded the philosopher,
meekly exhibiting his notebook.
She looked at him in a sort of helpless exasperation, with just a
smile somewhere in the background of it.
"Oh, you really are----" she exclaimed. "But let me go on. The
other man is a friend of the girl's; he's very clever--oh,
fearfully clever; and he's rather handsome. You needn't put that
down."
"It is certainly not very material," admitted the philosopher,
and he crossed out "handsome." "Clever" he left.
"And the girl is most awfully--she admires him tremendously; she
thinks him just the greatest man that ever lived, you know. And
she--she----" The girl paused.
"I'm following," said the philosopher, with pencil poised.
"She'd think it better than the whole world if--if she could be
anything to him, you know."
"You mean become his wife?"
"Well, of course I do--at least suppose I do."
"You spoke rather vaguely, you know.
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