“Oh, of course; and sorry for it afterward. One is likely to lose one’s temper any time. It might easily happen to me and drive me to make a fool of myself, like—like—” His voice trailed off into a silence of embarrassment.
“Like Fitzhugh Carroll. Why not say it? Well, I much prefer him and his hot-headedness to you and your careful wisdom.”
“Of course,” he acquiesced patiently. “Any girl would. It’s the romantic temperament.”
“And yours is the scientific, I suppose. That doesn’t take into account little things like patriotism and heroism, does it? Tell me, have you actually ever admired—really got a thrill out of—any deed of heroism?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied tranquilly. “I’ve done my bit of hero worship in my time. In fact, I’ve never quite recovered from it.”
“No! Really? Do go on. You’re growing more human every minute.”
“Do you happen to know anything about the Havana campaign?”
“Not much. It never seemed to me anything to brag of. Dad says the Spanish-American War grew a crop of newspaper-made heroes, manufactured by reporters who really took more risks and showed more nerve than the men they glorified.”
“Spanish-American War? That isn’t what I’m talking about. I’m speaking of Walter Reed and his fellow scientists, who went down there and fought the mosquitoes.”
The girl’s lip curled.