“And she’s never asked you anything?”
“Not a word. I don’t quite see Miss Camilla asking any one questions about themselves. Did she ask you?”
The girl’s color deepened almost imperceptibly. “You’re right,” she said. “There’s a standard of breeding that we up-to-date people don’t attain. But I’m at least intelligent enough to recognize it. You reckon her as a friend, don’t you?”
“Why, yes; I suppose so.”
“Do you suppose you’d ever come to reckon me as one?” she asked, half bantering, half wistful.
“There won’t be time. You’re running away.”
“Perhaps I might write you. I think I’d like to.”
“Would you?” he murmured. “Why?”
“You ought to be greatly flattered,” she reproved him. “Instead you shoot a ‘why’ at me. Well; because you’ve got something I haven’t got. And when I find anything new like that, I always try to get some of it for myself.”
“I don’t know what it could be, but—”