The young man could not resist stealing a glance at the little figure beside him, so neat, so trim, so fresh. He was a humble fellow, and never dreamed himself to be on a level with such a refined damsel. Glory was the girl for him, rough and ready, who could row a boat, and wade in the mud. He loved Glory. She was a sturdy girl, a splendid girl, he said to himself. Phoebe was altogether different, she belonged to another sphere, he could but look and admire—and worship perhaps. She dazzled him, but he could not love her. She was none of his sort, he said to himself.
'A penny for your thoughts!' said Phoebe roguishly. He coloured. 'I know what you were thinking of. You were thinking of me.'
De Witt's colour deepened. 'I was sure it was so. Now I insist on knowing what you were thinking of me.'
'Why,' answered George with a clumsy effort at gallantry, 'I thought what a beauty you were.'
'Oh, George, not when compared with Mehalah.'
De Witt fidgeted in his seat.
'Mehalah is quite of another kind, you see, Miss.'
'I'm no Miss, if you please. Call me Phoebe. It is snugger.'
'She's more—' he puzzled his head for an explanation of his meaning. 'She is more boaty than you are—'
'Phoebe.'