“That answers all questions,” said Lyndsay.
“No,” said Anne, “not until one knows your definition of friend. What is a friend?”
“A fellow that will fight for you,” said Jack.
“Then Sullivan or the ‘Tipton Slasher’ would be the best friend,” remarked Ned.
“A fellow you like,” said Dick.
“How is it, Ned?” said Lyndsay. “What is a friend?”
“I don’t know,” replied Ned, coloring as usual. “I would want a lot of them.”
“There is something in that,” said Anne. “I never found any one human being who, at all times and under all stress of needs, was able to give me everything I want of man or woman.”
“I think with you, Anne,” returned Lyndsay. “I never could quite comprehend those all-satisfying alliances one reads about, those friend-love affairs, such as Shakspere had with Herbert, or whoever it was. Certainly some men, and not always those who have most to give, intellectually, at least, have, as was said of a dead friend of mine, a genius for friendship. Wherever he went, men became attached to him,—they could hardly say why.”
“How do you explain it?” said Rose.