"It isn't easy to give reasons for such feelings," I said. "They spring up, as your father would say, very much like weeds."
"Indeed they do," she interpolated; "sometimes they grow in the middle of a gravel path where they cannot expect to be allowed to stay."
I reflected a moment. "I don't mind talking about these things to you," I said. "It seems almost like talking to myself."
"That is a compliment I appreciate," she said. "And now go on. Why do you care for her?"
"Well," said I, "in the first place, she is very handsome. Don't you think so?"
"Oh yes! In fact, I think she is almost what might be called exactly beautiful."
"Then she has such charming manners," I continued. "And she is so sensible—although you may not think I had much chance to find out that. Moreover, there is a certain sympathetic cordiality about her—"
"Which, of course," interrupted my companion, "you suppose she would not show to any man but you."
"Yes," said I. "I am speaking honestly now, and that's the way it strikes me. Of course I may be a fool, but I did think that a sympathy had arisen between us which would not arise between her and anybody else."
Miss Edith laughed heartily. "I am getting to know a great deal about one side of the subject," she said. "And now tell me—is that all? I don't believe it is."