Always Broussard had wakened her girlish admiration by his charm of manner, his sly impudence, his way of singing love songs; and her eyes followed him, while she turned away from him.

But she knew exactly what Broussard had said to her while they stood on the tanbark and she blushed to herself at the answer that came involuntarily to her lips.

She knew no more of actual love-making than the After-Clap, but she was an inveterate reader of poetry and romance, and had not studied the poets and romancists for nothing.

Perhaps Broussard would say more to her--at that thought a lovely light came into Anita's innocent eyes.
Perhaps he had forgotten everything.

Then Anita's eyes were troubled.
The pride of maidenhood was born, as it should be, with love, and Anita no longer ran to the window to see Broussard, but when he was present he filled the room; when he spoke she heard no other voice than his.
Colonel Fortescue had a theory which came amazingly true in his own daughter.