ideal which was perhaps after all charged with as many fallacies as her mother affirmed, she might do something reckless and irregular—something in which a sympathetic compatriot, as yet unknown, would find his profit. The image, unshaped though it was, of this sympathetic compatriot filled me with a sort of envy. For some moments I was silent, conscious of these things, and then I answered her question. "Because some things—some differences—are felt, not learned. To you liberty is not natural; you are like a person who has bought a repeater, and, in his satisfaction, is constantly making it sound. To a real American girl her liberty is a very vulgarly-ticking old clock."
"Ah, you mean, then," said the poor girl, "that my mother has ruined me?"
"Ruined you?"
"She has so perverted my mind that when I try to be natural I am necessarily immodest."
"That again is a false note," I said, laughing.
She turned away. "I think you are cruel."
"By no means," I declared; "because, for my own taste, I prefer you as—as—"
I hesitated, and she turned back. "As what?"
