"Oh, just the ordinary one," she replied in a matter-of-fact tone. "A gentleman must be absolutely brave, and must kill any man who insults him—or, at least, must hurt him badly. He must be absolutely honest—though he is not bound, of course, to tell all that he knows when he is selling a horse. He must be absolutely true to the woman he loves, and must never deceive her in any way. He must not refuse to drink with another gentleman unless he is willing to fight him. He must protect women and children. He must always be courteous—though he may be excused for a little rudeness when he has been drinking and so is not quite himself. He must be hospitable—ready to share his last crust with anybody, and his last drink with anybody of his class. And he must know how to ride and shoot and play the principal games of cards. Those are the main things. You are all that, are you not?"
She looked straight at him as she asked this question, speaking still in the same entirely matter-of-fact tone. But Maltham did not look straight back at her as he answered it. The creed that she set forth had queer articles in it, but its essentials were searching—so searching that his look was directed rather indefinitely toward the horizon as he replied, a little weakly perhaps: "Why, of course."
She seemed to be content with this not wholly conclusive answer; but as he was not content with it himself, and rather dreaded a cross-examination, he somewhat suddenly shifted the talk to a subject that he was sure would engross her thoughts. "How splendidly the Nixie goes!" he said. "She is a racer, and no mistake!"
"Indeed she is!" Ulrica exclaimed, with the fervour upon which he had counted. "She is the very fastest boat on the bay. And then she is so weatherly! Why, I can sail her into the very eye of the wind!"
"Yes, she has the look of being weatherly. But she wouldn't be if you didn't manage her so well. Who taught you how to sail?"
"It was old Gustav Bergmann—one of the fishermen here on the Point, you know. And he said," she went on with a little touch of pride, "that he never could have made such a good sailor of me if I had not had it in my blood—because I am a Swede."
"But you are an American."
Ulrica did not answer him immediately, and when she did speak it was with the same curiously slow thoughtfulness that he had observed when she was explaining the difference between her father's life and her own life in the solitude of Minnesota Point.
"I do not think I am," she said. "I do not know many American women, but I am not like any American woman I know. You see, I am very like my mother. Father says so, and I feel it—I cannot tell you just how I feel it, but I do. For one thing, I am more than half a savage, father says—like some of the wild Indians he has known. He is in fun, of course, when he says that; but he really is right, I am sure. Did you ever want to kill anybody, Mr. Maltham?"
"No," said Maltham with a laugh, "I never did. Did you?"