"I like him," said Ogilvie. "I like him mighty well. He's a chap who's not afraid to be fine. I tell you, it was a surprise to me to find him that sort—Benson Flood. You know, the name seems to suggest bonanzas, show and glitter, crudeness, perhaps a little—well—not what he is, anyway."
"But, surely, you have only seen him—twice, three times, isn't it? How can you possibly know all that about him?"
He smiled. "Oh, men don't always have to learn each other, as they would lessons, you know. I know what Flood is as well as if I had known him for years—and I like him as well, too!"
She looked at his enthusiastic face a little wonderingly. "Women are not like that," she said. "We—I don't think we—believe in our friends, as men do!"
"Oh, come now! Why don't you?"
"Because we don't. And because we don't deserve it. Why, you talk about Mr. Flood, who is certainly a new friend, to say the least, as if you would make any sacrifice for him! Women wouldn't do that for each other."
He could not guess that her touch of bitterness was due to her new humility—the humility she was so rapidly learning through her experiences here in the mountains; certainly he was far from seeing that he had himself done much to teach it to her, even during the past hour, when he had seemed to look upon her wealth as of small significance; now he was putting far more emphasis upon the fineness of character of Flood, the man she had so lightly esteemed.
"I fancy Mrs. Reeves would have something to say to that," said Ogilvie.
"Oh, Eleanor! Eleanor is my exception, of course! We all have our exceptions. But aside from Eleanor, there is no one else for whom I would make a sacrifice; yet you would do so for Mr. Flood, wouldn't you?"
Now he was rumpling his hair until it stood on end. "Why, yes, I suppose so! Yes, of course," he said, as if he were wondering where the talk was leading. Then he put it aside, and turned towards her.