Shirley, left alone at the breakfast-table, picked idly at the
preserved figs the owlish butler set before her. Vaguely she wondered
at her uncle's apparent hostility to the Cardigans; she was as
vaguely troubled in the knowledge that until she should succeed in
eradicating this hostility, it must inevitably act as a bar to the
further progress of her friendship with Bryce Cardigan. And she told
herself she did not want to lose that friendship. She wasn't the
least bit in love with him albeit she realized he was rather lovable.
The delight which she had experienced in his society lay in the fact
that he was absolutely different from any other man she had met. His
simplicity, his utter lack of "swank," his directness, his good
nature, and dry sense of humour made him shine luminously in
comparison with the worldly, rather artificial young men she had
previously met--young men who said and did only those things which
time, tradition, and hallowed memory assured them were done by the
right sort of people. Shirley had a suspicion that Bryce Cardigan
could--and would--swear like a pirate should his temper be aroused
and the circumstances appear to warrant letting off steam. Also she
liked him because he was imaginative--because he saw and sensed and
properly understood without a diagram or a blueprint.
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