She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. “There is my aunt,” she said. She emerged with a white face and wide-open eyes upon a little, red-lit landing. “John,” she said, “I am afraid that I am going to make you unhappy. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot.
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