Charming manners, I admit--lovely, sitting on a cushion looking up into some young girl's eyes, but he will never make his way here with those notions.

Why he should want to anger his uncle, who is certainly most kind to him, is past finding out.

He's stupid, that's what he is--just stupid!"-- to break with your bread and butter and to defy those who could be of service to you being an unpardonable sin with Miss Felicia.

No, he would not do at all for Ruth.
Peter settled himself deeper in his chair and studied the cheery blaze between his outspread fingers.
"That's the very thing will save him, Felicia." "What--his manners ?" "No--his adorable stupidity.

I grant you he's fighting windmills, but, then, my dear, don't forget that he's FIGHTING--that's something." "But they are only windmills, and, more extraordinary still, this one is grinding corn to keep him from starving," and she folded up her sewing preparatory to leaving the room.
Peter's fingers closed tight: "I'm not so sure of that," he answered gravely.
Miss Felicia had risen from her seat and was now bending over the back of his chair, her spare sharp elbows resting on its edge, her two hands clasping his cheeks.
"And are you really going to add this stupid boy to your string, you goose of a Peter ?" she asked in a bantering tone, as her fingers caressed his temples.