"I love that, too," said Muriel.
To Stainton's ear the use of one's first Latin verb translated was not merely schoolgirl carelessness and want of variety of phrase; it was an accurate expression of her abounding capacity for intense affection, her splendid fortune of emotion and her equally splendid generosity in its disposal.
"So do I," he said. "You can't begin to know how much it means to me to get back here."
"From the West?" Her eyes were soft at this. "But the West must be so romantic."
"Scarcely that. It has its points, but romance is not one of them."
"Oh, but your life there was romantic." She nodded wisely. "I know," she said.
Stainton's smile was tenderly indulgent.
"How did you get that idea?" he asked.
"Auntie Ethel has told me some of the brave things you did, and so has Uncle Preston."
"They have been reading some of the silly stories that the papers published when I made my big find. You mustn't believe all that the newspapers say."