The girl gave a curious, quiet smile. "I had," said she.

"YOU had!" exclaimed Arkwright.

"A woman always keeps a careful list of eligibles," explained she.
"As Lucy Burke told me he was headed for Washington, I put him on
my list that very night--well down toward the bottom, but, still,
on it. I had quite forgotten him until to-night."

Arkwright was staring at her. Her perfect frankness, absolute
naturalness with him, unreserved trust of him, gave him a guilty
feeling for the bitter judgment on her character which he had
secretly formed as the result of her confidences. "Yet, really,"
thought he, "she's quite the nicest girl I know, and the
cleverest. If she had hid herself from me, as the rest do, I'd
never for one instant have suspected her of having so much--so
much--calm, good sense--for that's all it amounts to." He decided
it was a mistake for any human being in any circumstances to be
absolutely natural and unconcealingly candid. "We're such shallow
fakers," reflected he, "that if any one confesses to us things not
a tenth part as bad as what we privately think and do, why, we set
him--or her--especially her--down as a living, breathing atrocity
in pants or petticoats."

Margaret was of the women who seem never to think of what they are
really absorbed in, and never to look at what they are really
scrutinizing. She disconcerted him by interrupting his reflections
with: "Your private opinion of me is of small consequence to me,
Grant, beside the relief and the joy of being able to say my
secret self aloud. Also"--here she grew dizzy at her own audacity