“You are too modest.”
“That is the first time I ever was accused of that,” sighed Maurice. “Tell me some more nice things.”
Ann, leaning back in the seat beside him and next to the window, looked at Maurice keenly. “I’ve discovered that your gay ways cover a lot of things, Maury. I imagine, for all you say, that your record at college, for instance, is not so bad.”
“It might be worse,” laughed Maurice, “but all the same, Ann, I have not covered the family with glory, or worked hard, as I should. I have tried to redeem the record a little this year, that’s all. But school was something that had to be put through; that was all it meant to me. And it means about the same now, Ann, though I appreciate the culture of the old profs, and I see that I have absorbed something from them.”
“I am too much the other way, Maurice. I’m inclined to think that school is everything; and when girls do not work at their lessons I put too low an estimate on them. I did with Eleanor, for one.”
“You are more nearly right, Ann. I’ll admit it; because if you do not do your best at whatever you work at, you lose out in habits of—what shall I call it?”
“Industry,” suggested Ann.
“Right. Look, Ann. We’re passing these southern pines, you see, where they are getting the turpentine. See the little receptacles fastened on?”
“Yes. How curious. They look like little flower pots at this distance.”
“They have different sorts in different places. See them, Madge?”