Linda understood that he was highly intellectual, and frequently
contributed historical and genealogical papers to societies and
bulletins, but compared with Dodge Pleydon's brilliant personality
and reputation, Pleydon surrounded by the Susanna Nodas of life,
Arnaud was as dingy as his shoes.

She wondered idly when the latter would actually try to love her. He
was holding her hand and it might well be to-night. Linda decided
that he would do it delicately; and when, almost immediately, he
kissed her, she was undisturbed. No, surprisingly, it had been quite
pleasant. He hadn't mussed her ribbons, nor her spirit, a particle.
In addition he did not at once become impossible and urgently
sentimental; there was even a shade of amusement on his heavy face.

"You appear to take a lot for granted," he complained.

"I'd been wondering when it would happen," she admitted coolly.

"It always does, then?"

"Usually I stop it," she continued. "I don't believe I'll ever like
being kissed. Can you tell me why? No one ever has; they all think
they can bring me around to it."

"And to them," he added.

"But they end by being furious at me. I've been sworn at and called
dreadful names. Sometimes they're only silly. One cried; I hated
that the most."