I've never told her."
"And she's never asked you anything?"
"Not a word. I don't quite see Miss Camilla asking any one questions
about themselves. Did she ask you?"
The girl's color deepened almost imperceptibly. "You're right," she
said. "There's a standard of breeding that we up-to-date people don't
attain. But I'm at least intelligent enough to recognize it. You reckon
her as a friend, don't you?"
"Why, yes; I suppose so."
"Do you suppose you'd ever come to reckon me as one?" she asked, half
bantering, half wistful.
"There won't be time. You're running away."
"Perhaps I might write you. I think I'd like to."
"Would you?" he murmured. "Why?"
"You ought to be greatly flattered," she reproved him. "Instead you
shoot a 'why' at me. Well; because you've got something I haven't got.
And when I find anything new like that, I always try to get some of it
for myself."
"I don't know what it could be, but--"
"Call it your philosophy of life. Your contentment. Or is it only
detachment? That can't last, you know."
He turned to her, vaguely disturbed as by a threat. "Why not?"
"You're too--well, distinctive. You're too rare and beautiful a
specimen. You'll be grabbed." She laughed softly.
"Who'll grab me?"
"How should I know? Life, probably.
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