"I suppose you're thinking that's the way I got my opinions too," he said. "But it's not quite true. I wasn't trying to be English or French or foreign in any way. I was proud—not ashamed—to be American. Why, at school in England they used to have a regular game to get me started bragging about America and Chicago and our West. I liked the people over there; but I liked our people better. Grandfather—well, he seemed to me about the greatest sort of man possible; and his friends and father's friends who used to come to look me up at Harrow once in a while—some of 'em were pretty raw and uncouth, but I liked to show 'em off! I did. They'd all done something themselves; and most of 'em were still doing things—big things—and putting in eight or ten hours a day in their offices. They weren't gentlemen at all in the sense that my friends at Harrow knew English gentlemen; but I said they were the real thing. America—my country—was made up of men who really did things!
"Then the war came and showed us up! I tell you, Miss Gail, I couldn't believe it at first. It seemed to me that the news couldn't be getting across to America; or that lies only were reaching you. Then the American newspapers came to France and everyone could see that we knew and stayed out!"
"Last week," Ruth said, "and yesterday; and before I met you this morning, I knew how to tell you what I tried to that day at Mrs. Corliss'. I've thought more about that, I'm sure, than anything else recently; but now—" she gazed across the little table at him and shook her head—"it's no use. It's not anything one can argue, I
