She had once thought that black-eyed, handsome young Ferdy Wickersham was as near her ideal as any one else she knew.

He led germans divinely.

But he was selfish, and she had never admired him as much as another man, who was less showy, but was, she knew, more of a man: Norman Wentworth, a bold swimmer, a good horseman, and a leader of their set.

It suddenly occurred to her now how much more like this man Norman Wentworth was than Ferdy Wickersham, and following her thought of the two, she suddenly stepped up on a higher level and was conscious of a certain elation, much like that she had had the day she had climbed up before Gordon Keith on the out-jutting rock and looked far down over the wide expanse of forest and field, to where his home had been.
She sat for a little while in deep reflection.

Presently she said, quite gravely and a little shyly: "You know, I am not a bit what you think I am.