Those ranking him were not always pleased; those whom he ranked felt vaguely the mistake.
As for me, I liked him greatly; yet, somehow, never could bring myself to a careless comradeship, even in the woods or on lonely scouts where formality and circumstance seemed out of place, even absurd.

He was so much of a boy, too--handsome, active, perfectly fearless, and almost always gay--that if at times he seemed a little selfish or ruthless in his pleasures, not sufficiently mindful of others or of consequences, I found it easy to forgive and overlook.

Yet, fond as I was of him, I never had become familiar with him--why, I do not know.

Perhaps because he ranked me; and perhaps there was no particular reason for that instinct of aloofness which I think was part of me at that age, and, except in a single instance, still remains as the slightest and almost impalpable barrier to a perfect familiarity with any person in the world.
"Loskiel," he said in my ear, "did you see that little maid in the orchard, how shyly she smiled on us ?" "On you," I nodded, laughing.
"Oh, you always say that," he retorted.
And I always did say that, and it always pleased him.
"On this accursed journey south," he complained, "the necessity for speed has spoiled our chances for any roadside sweethearts.

Lord! But it's been a long, dull trail," he added frankly.