"Not the same," said I.
She flushed, it seemed angrily, and glanced down at her hand, on which she immediately proceeded to draw a glove.
"Yours are stronger. And finer," I added, when I saw that the tribute of strength did not please.
"It's the one little personal thing I am proud of," she remarked.
"You have made my four hours pass like four minutes," said I. "A service to a fellow-creature which you might take some pride in having performed."
"When I was a child I could have said the same of performing elephants."
"I am no longer a child, Miss Deane," said I with a bow.
What there was in this to make the blood rush to her pale cheeks I do not know. The ways of women have often surprised me. I have heard other men make a similar confession.
"I think most men are children," she said shortly.
"In what way?"