Rattleton's hair was rigid at his boldness and impertinence, but his hair had nothing to do with his speaking apparatus. His heart was taking charge of that, moving it very slowly and just a little hoarsely.
"Why, what devout hero worship!" said the girl with a smile. "No, I don't think anything of the kind. He might have fallen in love with some one entirely unworthy of him, or, what is more, who did not care for him. No matter how perfect she might be, you would not have her marry if she did not love him, would you?"
"No—o," assented Jack, reluctantly, "but she ought to love him."
"He must, indeed, be all that you paint him, then," she laughed, "but love does not necessarily take to paragons, you know. Why do you admire him so very much?"
"Because I have known him like a brother for four years," answered Jack, earnestly. "Oh, if you knew him as well as I do, you would——you wouldn't think I was exaggerating."
"What made you think him so desperately in love?"
"Oh, I don't know. I think it is unmistakable," was Jack's weak reply.
"Only those can tell who have themselves been in that condition—they say," came the laughing response.
Jack's finger-nails went into his palms. "No, no," he stammered, "no,—I can tell. Oh, you ought to have seen him," he went on, desperately. "The way he went to work at that rowing after it all, showed his sand. If they lose to-morrow, I believe his plucky old heart will break right in two."
"And is his 'sand,' as you call it, restricted to rowing a boat-race?"