One day when Stanley, in the manner of one who
wishes a thing settled and settled right, said he would
ask Donald Keith about it, Mildred, a little piqued,
a little amused, retorted:
``And what will he answer? Why, simply yes or no.''
``That's all,'' assented Stanley. ``And that's quite
enough, isn't it?''
``But how do you know he's as wise as he pretends?''
``He doesn't pretend to be anything or to know
anything. That's precisely it.''
Mildred suddenly began to like Keith. She had never
thought of this before. Yes, it was true, he did not
pretend. Not in the least, not about anything. When
you saw him, you saw at once the worst there was to
see. It was afterward that you discovered he was not
slovenly, but clean and neat, not badly but well dressed,
not homely but handsome, not sickly but soundly well,
not physically weak but strong, not dull but vividly alive,
not a tiresome void but an unfathomable mystery.
``What does he do?'' she asked Mrs. Brindley.
Cyrilla's usually positive gray eyes looked vague.
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