impersonal. 'You' is very personal, and your use of it just now was not
precisely what you meant."

"I don't just see that."

"Why, you said just now, to me, 'whiskey and beer--anything that will
make you drunk'--make me drunk, don't you see?"

"Well, it would, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, of course," she smiled. "But it would be nicer not to bring me
into it. Substitute 'one' for 'you' and see how much better it sounds."

When she returned with the grammar, she drew a chair near his--he
wondered if he should have helped her with the chair--and sat down beside
him. She turned the pages of the grammar, and their heads were inclined
toward each other. He could hardly follow her outlining of the work he
must do, so amazed was he by her delightful propinquity. But when she
began to lay down the importance of conjugation, he forgot all about her.
He had never heard of conjugation, and was fascinated by the glimpse he
was catching into the tie-ribs of language. He leaned closer to the
page, and her hair touched his cheek. He had fainted but once in his
life, and he thought he was going to faint again. He could scarcely
breathe, and his heart was pounding the blood up into his throat and
suffocating him. Never had she seemed so accessible as now. For the
moment the great gulf that separated them was bridged. But there was no
diminution in the loftiness of his feeling for her. She had not
descended to him. It was he who had been caught up into the clouds and
carried to her. His reverence for her, in that moment, was of the same
order as religious awe and fervor. It seemed to him that he had intruded