"And you read that, and knew what football game it was, and yet you never recognized yourself! What are your brains made of, anyway?"
How could a man reply to such a sublime absurdity as that? I groaned.
"In the diary you wrote of an apotheosis," I confessed. "How in the name of all that is logical could I connect myself with this admirable, impossible superman? You failed to give the name."
She looked at me and laughed.
"The man is also modest," she observed.
"Of course," I demurred, "it's great to see you treading the clouds, with ideals for your playmates. Moreover, it's appropriate; but I'm down here, you know, earthbound and extremely mortal. If we are to walk together you must come down and join me."
"I'll take you up with me," she hospitably asserted, and though since then she must have discovered many times that she had draped her cloth of gold upon a lay figure and had made a plumed and mailed knight of a failure and an inconsequent, yet she has, with gallant stubbornness, refused to admit it.
"Dearest," I said very humbly, "I have been inconceivably boorish, and worse. How could you bring yourself to forgive it?"
"Because," she answered, "I'm a woman—and inquisitive. I knew how you felt, and I wanted to find out why you acted so horridly at Lexington."
"I was trying very hard not to tell you how I felt," I admitted.