“Yes, they do,” said Hilda, earnestly; “you say everything is perfectly grand or gorgeous when it’s most commonplace. And then when you come across something really grand or gorgeous what can you say?”
“Of course that’s all true; but that’s just a way we have. You like America, don’t you?”
“Yes, rather well. But I never shall learn to rave over nothing the way you all do.”
“How do you know I do? You scarcely know me at all yet.”
“You’re not as much so as the rest. And I think I shall like you. But I don’t make friends easily, and often I don’t get on with the very ones I most want to.”
“Oh, you’ll get on with me all right if you have the least mite of a wish to. I make friends awfully easily. That is, I generally have,” supplemented Patty, suddenly remembering her experiences of the past week.
“I think I’d like to be friends with you,” said Hilda, with an air of thoughtful caution, “but of course I can’t say yet.”
“Of course not!” said Patty, unable to resist poking a little fun at this very practical girl; “I think you ought to know anybody four weeks before you decide, and then take them on trial.”
“I think so, too,” said Hilda, heartily, taking Patty quite seriously, though the speech had been meant entirely in jest. “You’re awfully sensible, for an American.”
“Yes, I think I am,” said Patty, demurely.