Harry Hilton flushed like a girl to the roots of his hair, as he took it.
“You’re—you’re too good, Miss Hamilton,” he stammered.
“Why?” said Claudia, opening her eyes and smiling. “Don’t you think it’s nice to have friends? I had so many at the college, and I really miss them here. I can’t stand writing and that sort of thing—I haven’t the time. So that if you like it.”
“Like it!”
“People are so stupid,” she went on; “they always talk as if men and women couldn’t be friends without fancying themselves in love, or some such nonsense. Several of us agreed that we would make our own lines, and not give way to foolish conventionalities. Why should we not show the world that it is mistaken?”
“Yes,” he said more doubtfully. But Claudia was filled with the enthusiasm of her own convictions, and the hesitation of his acquiescence was lost upon her.
“Of course we can, and we will. You and I, for instance, will be good comrades, ready to help each other on either side. If I think you wrong in any matter I shall tell you, and you must do the same by me. Then there are certain things I will never have.”
“What are they?” said Harry, hastily.
“If you pay compliments or flatter, the compact’s off. I can’t stand either one or the other.”
“Mayn’t I say if I admire anything very much?”