Stuyvesant had been switching a cane viciously. He had taken off many heads of a particularly dressed-up variety of tulip.
"I'll be darned!" he said, looking at them with surprise. "Couldn't you see how dear and all that kind of thing she was?" he queried farther. "I don't see how even a set of simpering, half-witted, idiotic, jealous girls could help seeing——"
"So you're in love with her?" interrupted Annette.
Stuyvesant looked on his cousin with surprise. Then he answered. "Of course," he said, "but how'd you know?"
Annette laughed. After her laughter she slipped a hand through his arm. "Stuyvesant," she said, "your soul and mine are cut from a different pattern. It was always hard for me to understand you, but something has happened lately which has made me larger, much decenter. Stuyvesant, I want a long talk—a heart-to-heart effect. Will you walk back with me?"
"Of course," he answered.
"You'll be glad to know," she went on, "that after Cecilia had pneumonia she was quite the idol of the school. There was one of those complete shifts so characteristic of our American youth, and every one liked her but me. She used to try to make me like her with the most transparent little appeals. Heavens, I was a devil! She sent me violets at one time when I had a cold, and I gave them to the maid, and then spoke loudly before her of unwelcome attentions and social climbers."
Stuyvesant was walking in jerks. His arm beneath Annette's was rigid.
"She's forgiven me," said Annette, smiling.
He relaxed. "I am a darn fool!" he said, "but honestly——!" He stopped and shook his head.