"I don't see, Mr. Mangan," she said, in a somewhat low voice, and yet a little proudly too, "why you should fear comparison with any one—no, not with any one; or imagine that anything could—could displace you in the regard of your friends."
He hesitated again—anxious, eager, and yet afraid. At last he said, rather sadly,
"I wish I knew something of your ideals, and how far away beyond human possibility they are."
"Oh, I can tell you," she said, plucking up heart of grace, for here was an easy way out of an embarrassing position. "My ideal woman is Sister Alexandra, of the East London Hospital.
She was down here last Sunday—sweeter, more angelic than ever. That is the noblest type of woman I know. And I was so glad she enjoyed her rare holiday; and when she went away in the evening we had her just loaded with flowers for her ward."
"And the ideal man?"
"Oh," said Miss Francie, hurriedly, "I hardly know about that. Of course, when I—when I spoke of Linn a little while ago, I did not wish to say anything against him—certainly not—no one admires his better qualities more than I do—but—but there may be other qualities—"
They were come to the wooden gate opening on to the highway; he paused ere he lifted the latch.
"Francie," said he, "do you think that some day you might be induced to put aside all your high standards and ideals, and—and—in short, accept a battered old journalist, without money, position, distinction, without any graces, except this, that gratitude might add something to his affection for you?"
Tears sprang into her eyes, and yet there was a smile there, too; she was not wholly frightened—perhaps she had known all along.