“I’d rather set you an example in good manners.”
“That’s good,” appreciating it at once.
“Besides,” he added slyly, “I don’t see that it isn’t just as bad to be proud of a snub nose and untidiness, as of a beautiful nose or book learning, and from the way you speak you positively revel in them.”
“You have me again,” she replied frankly. “I guess we’ll be friends for ten minutes and you shall show me your views.”
They sat down, and he opened an enormous album, but after the first few pages she looked up at him entreatingly, and said with a delightful little air of pathos:
“I’m so sorry, but if you only knew how I hate sitting still. I—I’m just dying to prowl round, and look at all the queer things on the walls.”
He closed the book with a laugh, and she sprang up at once, saying:
“I’ll look at the views when I’m old and rheumaticky. You must save them for me,” and then she went into raptures over a beautiful case of foreign butterflies, afterward fingering with delight his guns and swords.
“You ought to have been a man,” he said almost regretfully.
“Why, of course I ought. I’ve known that ever since they put Jack in trousers, and not me. But I guess I’ll have to stay a woman now to the end of the chapter, and make the best of it.”