"She'd think it better than the whole world if --if she could be
anything to him, you know."
"You mean become his wife?"
"Well, of course I do--at least, I suppose I do."
"You spoke rather vaguely, you know."
The girl cast one glance at the philosopher as she replied:
"Well, yes; I did mean become his wife."
"Yes. Well?"
"But," continued the girl, starting on another tuft of grass, "he
doesn't think much about those things. He likes her. I think he
likes her--"
"Well, doesn't dislike her?" suggested the philosopher. "Shall we
call him indifferent?"
"I don't know. Yes, rather indifferent. I don't think he thinks
about it, you know. But she--she's pretty. You needn't put that
down."
"I was not about to do so," observed the philosopher.
"She thinks life with him would be just heaven; and--and she thinks
she would make him awfully happy. She would--would be so proud of
him, you see."
"I see. Yes?"
"And--I don't know how to put it, quite--she thinks that if he ever
thought about it at all he might care for her; because he doesn't
care for anybody else, and she's pretty--"
"You said that before."
"Oh dear, I dare say I did. And most men care for somebody, don't
they? Some girl, I mean.
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