She seemed to be waiting, slightly puzzled, but he broke off--"Now I must
hurry to mail these letters It's good to be home for another summer. You
really _do_ please me, Nance!"

She thought, as he moved off, that Allan was handsome--more than handsome,
indeed. He left an immediate conviction of his superb vitality of body and
mind, the incarnation of a spirit created to prevail. Featured in almost
faultless outline, of a character unconsciously, unaffectedly proclaiming
its superior gravity among human masses, he was a planet destined to have
many satellites and be satellite to none; an _ego_ of genuine lordliness;
a presence at once masterly and decorative.

And yet she was conscious of a note--not positively of discord, but one
still exciting a counter-stream of reflection. She had observed that each
time Allan turned his head, ever so little, he had a way of turning his
shoulders with it: the perfect head and shoulders were swung with almost a
studied unison. And this little thing had pricked her admiration with a
certain needle-like suspicion--a suspicion that the young man might be not
wholly oblivious of his merits as a spectacle.

Yet this was no matter to permit in one's mind. For Nancy of the
lengthened skirts and the massed braids was now a person of reserves. Even
in that innocent insolence of first womanhood, with its tentatively
malicious, half-conscious flauntings, she was one of reticences toward the
world including herself, with petticoats of decorum draping the child's
anarchy of thought--her luxuriant young emotions "done up" sedately with
her hair. She was now one to be cautious indeed of imputations so blunt as
this concerning Allan. Besides, how nobly he had spoken of Bernal. Then
she wondered _why_ it should seem noble, for Nancy would be always a