“Strange. That is what the author said, that it was a close portrait of a near friend.”
“What is it, about him, that you do not like?”
“Oh, I like him, in a way. But these reformers, idealists, thinking they can dream the world into Arcadia!”
Bambi’s clear laugh startled him.
“What amuses you so?” he asked, shortly.
“I suppose I rather like the idealist type.”
He looked at her closely.
“Good heavens, you don’t think I’m like that, do you?”
“A little,” she admitted.
“If I thought that I was that particular brand of idiot I’d learn bookkeeping and be a clerk,” was the reply.
“Maybe it isn’t you—maybe it is just man I recognize.”
“You can see how terribly clever the woman is—to set each of us accusing the other.”
“She is just a student of types, that’s all,” Bambi disparaged the lady.
So they began their co-partnership. The shyness, the appeal, the new self-conscious element Bambi had sensed in Jarvis gave way to the old mental
