Yet I must have talked more than I knew, because I remember expressing opinions concerning books and operas and pictures, subjects I had not discussed for years except occasionally with Mother, and then only because she was still interested in them.

I seemed, somehow, to have become a different, a younger man, under the influence of these few hours with the girl I had professed to hate so cordially.

Our companionship--perfectly meaningless as it was, the mere caprice of an idle day on her part--had rejuvenated me.

During that homeward walk I forgot myself entirely, forgot that I was Ros Paine, the country loafer; forgot, too, that she was the only child of the city millionaire, that we had, or could have, nothing in common.
She, also, seemed to forget, and we chatted together as unconsciously and easily as if we had known each other all our lives.
Yet it may be that her part in the conversation was not altogether without a purpose.

She led me to speak of Denboro and its people, of how they lived, and of the old days of sailing ships and deep sea skippers.
George Taylor's name was mentioned and I praised him highly, telling of his rise from poor boy to successful man, as we rated success locally.
"He manages that bank well," I declared.