"His age makes him interesting, you know," pursued Roberta. "He's just
enough older--and maturer--than any of the men I know, to make him seem
immensely more worth while. His very looks--that thin, keen face of
his--it's plain, yet attractive, and his eyes look as if they could
see through stone walls. It flatters you to have him seem to find
the things you say worth listening to. I can't just explain his
peculiar--fascination--I really think it is that, except that it's his
splendid mind that grips yours, somehow. Oh, I sound like a,
schoolgirl," she burst out, "in spite of my twenty-four years. I wonder
if you see what I mean."
"I think I do," said her mother, smiling a little. "You mean that your
judgment approves him, but that your heart lags a little behind?"
"How did you know?" Roberta folded her arms upon her mother's lap, and
looked up eagerly into her face. "I didn't say anything about my heart."
"But you did, dear. The very fact that you can discuss him so coolly
tells me that your heart isn't seriously involved as yet. Is it?"
"That's what I don't know," said the girl. "When he writes like
this--the last two pages I can't read to you--I don't know what I think.
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