“Oh!” she said, with a falling inflection. It was discouraging to find him so unconscious. “Does she go much?”
“Everywhere. She’s awfully popular. How does she strike you?” He tried to be casual.
“She’s not like anyone else I’ve seen in Santa Barbara,” Lillian replied.
He fairly glowed. She had never seen Wallie so enthusiastic.
“You’re just right, Lil! There is no one like her. She makes every other girl look like a dough doll! It’s not only that she’s beautiful—she isn’t afraid of anything, she don’t care how she looks—she’s just crackling with life.”
“Do you admire her so awfully?” Lillian said, with such an amazed emphasis on the personal pronoun as brought him up short.
“Why—er—of course. Why not? Don’t you?” The color came up under his brown skin.
“Well,” she said, slowly, “of course I’ve only met her once; but really, Wallie, is she quite—fine?”
“Fine? What do you mean?”
She knew that he knew what she meant. The word was not a new one from her. It was her measure, her ruler by which she judged the world. He was not so unconscious, then, as he seemed.