"And that something will never be bound in three-quarters morocco," I replied, flinging away my book impatiently.
"No, indeed! The bookworm has turned. The 'something' will be bound in an English tweed suit of clothes through the day's business hours, and—"
"And a long gray overcoat, and a soft gray hat."
She looked at me in surprise.
"Then you've seen him?"
"I have seen—the type."
She understood, but she still looked at me wonderingly.
"No. He is my friend, but if I were in love with Alfred I'd have palpitations every time I passed the red cross on an ambulance. That's the way I'm going to love."
"I should think you could find an outlet for all the pent-up ambition you complain of, if you loved Alfred," she insisted, although she imagined that she was not insisting. "I have never met a more ambitious man, nor one of such singleness of purpose. Naturally success seems to gravitate toward him, as the crow flies."