"It's astonishing," mused Priscilla, "how many friends you make!"
"Why should it be astonishing? Why shouldn't I make friends?"
"I only meant it was astonishing in comparison with me. No one ever attaches importance to me. In the past year I have hardly made a new friend—while you—"
"You have made a friend of me for one thing, and Lucian thinks you are exactly right, and my mother considers you a perfect model. Oh, yes, and there's Eunice."
Priscilla, in spite of herself, smiled at Martine's droll tone.
"But think of all the people you have to your credit. Mr. Stacy says he never saw a young girl talk so intelligently about Plymouth, and the children are always asking me when you will come again, and in her secret heart I believe Aunt Tilworth prefers you to me,—and my mother—"
"What nonsense, Priscilla! It's only because people think me so very empty-headed when they first meet me, that they are surprised later to find that there's anything to me, just as I am surprised some times to discover these quiet dignified girls, like Elinor, and Clare, are really very good fun when you come to know them better."
"Then," continued Priscilla, "there are Balfour and Mr. Gamut. If you hadn't been considerate of Balfour's feelings, and invited him to your house, he wouldn't have met Mr. Gamut, and Eunice says he has made him a splendid offer, and he will take it as soon as he's through college."
"Oh, well, things may have happened that way; but you know yourself that I haven't any particular talent for anything, and I never go out of my way to help people."
"You help them just by being bright and pleasant and making them think the best of themselves."