“I mean, what’s the sense of asking me that question? You wouldn’t believe me if I said she wasn’t pretty, would you?”
“Well, I’d just like to know whether you agree with me or not.”
“Yes, sir,” said she, fixing him with an accusing eye; “I do agree with you—absolutely.”
“The strange thing about it,” he pursued defensively, “is that I never thought of her as being especially good-looking until recently. Funny, isn’t it?”
“There are a lot of things we don’t notice,” said she, “until some one else pinches us. Then we open our eyes. I guess some one must have pinched you. It hurts more when a man pinches you—’specially a big strong fellow like Doc Lansing.”
A pained expression came into Oliver’s eyes. “The trouble is, I’ve always looked upon her as a—well, as a sort of sister or something like that. We grew up just like brother and sister. How was I to know that she was pretty? A fellow never thinks of his sister as being pretty, does he?”
“I suppose not. But, on the other hand, he never loses his appetite and mopes and has the blues if his sister happens to take a fancy to a man who isn’t her brother. That’s what you’ve been doing for two or three weeks. If you had the least bit of gumption you’d up and tell her you can’t stand being a brother to her any longer and you’d like to be something else—if it isn’t too late.”
“Gee!” exclaimed he, ruefully. “But suppose she was to say it is too late?”
“That’s a nice way for a soldier to talk,” said Mrs. Grimes scathingly.
He saw very little of Jane during the days that followed Mrs. Sage’s return. Her mother demanded much of her; she was constantly in attendance upon the pampered lady. Oliver chafed. He complained to Jane on one of the rare occasions when they were alone together.