She had contended that he was unjust; that a lack of sympathy with the ends of the army—­basis of it—­should not bring him to a prejudiced attitude toward its people.  She maintained that officers of the army were a higher type than civilians of the same class.  He had told her, almost roughly, that he didn’t think she knew anything about it, and she had replied, heatedly, that she would like to know why she wouldn’t know more about it than he!  In the end he said he was sorry to have hurt her when there was so much else to hurt her, but had not retracted what he had said, or even admitted the possibility of mistake.

It seemed that one of the worst things about “classes” was that they inevitably meant misunderstanding.  They bred antagonism, and that prejudice.  People didn’t know each other.

Considering it now, she wondered, though feeling traitorous to him in the wondering, if the man who mended the boats might shrink from anything so distinctly social as calling upon her.

Their meetings theretofore had been on a bigger and a sterner basis; she had missed a few of the little niceties of consideration, a few of those perfunctory and yet curiously vital courtesies to which she had all her life been accustomed as a matter of course from her army men; but it had been as if they were merely leaving them behind for things larger and deeper, as if their background was the real world rather than world of perfunctory things.  From him she had a consideration, not perfunctory, but in the mood of the things they were sharing.  That sense of sharing big things, things real and rude, had swept them out of the world of artificial things.  Now did he perhaps hold back in timidity from that world of the trivial things?

She put it from her, disliking herself as of the trivial things in letting it suggest itself at all.  Expecting him to be just like the men she had known would be expecting the sea to behave like that lake in the park.

That night she put on her most attractive gown, a dress sometimes gray and sometimes cloudy blues and greens, itself like the sea, and finding in Katie a more mysterious quality than her openness would usually suggest.  Feeling called upon to make some account to herself for dressing more than occasion would seem to demand, she told herself that she must get the poor old thing worn out and get something new.

But it was not a poor old thing, and the last thing Katie really wanted was to succeed in getting it worn out.

As she dressed she was thinking of Ann’s pleasure in clothes.  There were times when it had seemed a not altogether likeable vanity.  It was understandable—­lovable—­after having been to Centralia, after knowing.  So many things were understandable and lovable after knowing.

She wished she might call across the hall and ask Ann to come in and fasten her dress.  She would like to chat with her about the way she had done her hair—­all those intimate little things they had countless times talked about so gayly.