likes her--"

"Well, doesn't dislike her?" suggested the philosopher. "Shall we
call him indifferent?"

"I don't know. Yes, rather indifferent. I don't think he thinks
about it, you know. But she--she's pretty. You needn't put that
down."

"I was not about to do so," observed the philosopher.

"She thinks life with him would be just heaven; and--and she thinks
she would make him awfully happy. She would--would be so proud of
him, you see."

"I see. Yes?"

"And--I don't know how to put it, quite--she thinks that if he ever
thought about it at all he might care for her; because he doesn't
care for anybody else, and she's pretty--"

"You said that before."

"Oh dear, I dare say I did. And most men care for somebody, don't
they? Some girl, I mean."

"Most men, no doubt," conceded the philosopher.

"Well then, what ought she to do? It's not a real thing, you know,
Mr. Jerningham. It's in --in a novel I was reading." She said this