"
"Not much spirit of any kind, I imagine," said Beaton. "But she's amiably
material. Did they say Miss Dryfoos was seriously ill?"
"No. I supposed she might be prostrated by her brother's death."
"Does she seem that kind of person to you, Miss Vance?" asked Beaton.
"I don't know. I haven't tried to see so much of them as I might, the
past winter. I was not sure about her when I met her; I've never seen
much of people, except in my own set, and the--very poor. I have been
afraid I didn't understand her. She may have a kind of pride that would
not let her do herself justice."
Beaton felt the unconscious dislike in the endeavor of praise. "Then she
seems to you like a person whose life--its trials, its chances--would
make more of than she is now?"
"I didn't say that. I can't judge of her at all; but where we don't know,
don't you think we ought to imagine the best?"
"Oh yes," said Beaton. "I didn't know but what I once said of them might
have prejudiced you against them. I have accused myself of it." He always
took a tone of conscientiousness, of self-censure, in talking with Miss
Vance; he could not help it.
"Oh no. And I never allowed myself to form any judgment of her. She is
very pretty, don't you think, in a kind of way?"
"Very.
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