Look through the window to the lawn outside, covered with snow.
“That’s an unusual remark for a girl of your sort to make,” you muse. “Well, you probably talk that way because this is winter. Now, if I had asked you in July, when there would be plenty of mosquitoes——”
“What ARE you talking about?” she asks. “What do you mean, a girl of my type?”
Laugh and glance at her obliquely. She is very pretty, you think, with that maddeningly serene face of hers. Just now, though she is interested, her expression isn’t really with you. You want to do something about it.
“I mean a girl of your type,” repeat firmly. “A girl who believes everything she’s taught.”
She frowns a little.
“Wouldn’t it be silly to go to school for as long as I have if I didn’t use what they told me?”
“That isn’t what school is for,” you answer hastily. Lord, what a dumbbell! Why am I here, anyway? But she is pretty.
“You’re pretty, anyway,” you say aloud.
“But that’s awfully mean! Pretty anyway! What do you mean? Don’t you think a girl can be pretty and have brains too?”