"Yes. Well?"
"But," continued the girl, starting on another tuft of grass, "he doesn't think much about those things. He likes her. I think he 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 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."