There was a smallness, a daintiness, a liveliness
about Elizabeth that was almost irresistible. She was so capable,
so cheerful in spite of the fact that she was having a hard time.
And then their minds seemed to blend so remarkably. There were no
odd corners to be smoothed away. Never in his life had he felt so
supremely at his ease with one of the opposite sex. He loved
Claire--he drove that fact home almost angrily to himself--but he
was forced to admit that he had always been aware of something in
the nature of a barrier between them. Claire was querulous at
times, and always a little too apt to take offence. He had never
been able to talk to her with that easy freedom that Elizabeth
invited. Talking to Elizabeth was like talking to an attractive
version of oneself. It was a thing to be done with perfect
confidence, without any of that apprehension which Claire inspired
lest the next remark might prove the spark to cause an explosion.
But Claire was the girl he loved--there must be no mistake about
that.
He came to the conclusion that the key to the situation was the
fact that Elizabeth was American. He had read so much of the
American girl, her unaffectedness, her genius for easy comradeship.
Well, this must be what the writer fellows meant. He had happened
upon one of those delightful friendships without any suspicion of
sex in them of which the American girl had the monopoly.
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