"But how," demanded Dunham, breaking rebelliously from the silence
in which he had listened, "do you account for her good manner?"

"She probably was born with a genius for it. Some people are born
with a genius for one thing, and some with a genius for another. I,
for example, am an artistic genius, forced to be an amateur by the
delusive possession of early wealth, and now burning with a creative
instinct in the direction of the sheep or cattle business; you have
the gift of universal optimism; Lurella Blood has the genius of good
society. Give that girl a winter among nice people in Boston, and you
would never know that she was not born on Beacon Hill."

"Oh, I doubt that," said Dunham.

"You doubt it? Pessimist!"

"But you implied just now that she had no sensibility," pursued
Dunham.

"So I did!" cried Staniford, cheerfully. "Social genius and
sensibility are two very different things; the cynic might contend
they were incompatible, but I won't insist so far. I dare say she
may regret the natal spot; most of us have a dumb, brutish attachment
to the _cari luoghi_; but if she knows anything, she hates its
surroundings, and must be glad to get out into the world. I should
like mightily to know how the world strikes her, as far as she's gone.
But I doubt if she's one to betray her own counsel in any way. She
looks deep, Lurella does." Staniford laughed again at the pain which
his insistence upon the name brought into Dunham's face.