“You look like an English girl.”
That meant that he was pleased, she knew.
“I’m not. I’m American—as far back as the Revolution.”
“What revolution?” he asked.
With the characteristic innocence of her country-people, whose Genesis it is, she was astounded.
“Why, our Revolution! In 1776!” she explained.
He said “Really!” and went on with his writing.
The next night he saluted her with a stiff “Good evening!” directly she entered the room, so formal and frigid that her heart sank. They weren’t friendly, then! But, after half an hour’s desperate effort, he grew bored and discouraged, and once more turned his attention to the pretty girl.
“You’re doing well,” he observed.
Frances gave a sigh and smiled at him.