“Then you’re wrong.  I do.”

“You know this man?”

“Yes; I do.”

“Does your father approve of—­”

“Never mind my father!  He has confidence enough in me to let me judge of my own friends.”

“Friends?” Carroll’s handsome face clouded and reddened.  “If I had known that he was a friend of yours, Miss Polly, I never would have spoken as I did.  I’m most sincerely sorry,” he added, with grave courtesy.

The girl’s color deepened under the brown.

“He isn’t exactly a friend,” she admitted.  “I’ve just met and talked with him a few times.  But your judgment seemed so unfair, on such a slight basis.”

“I’m sorry I can’t reverse my judgment,” said the Southerner stiffly, “But I know of only one standard for those matters.”

“That’s just your trouble.”  Her eyes took on a cold gleam as she scanned the perfection and finish of the man before her.  “Fitzhugh, do you wear ready-made clothing?”

“Of course not,” he answered, in surprise at this turn.

“Your suits are all made to order?”

“Yes, Miss Polly.”

“And your shirts?”

“Yes, and shoes, and various other things.”  He smiled.

“Why do you have them specially made?”

“Beeause they suit me better, and I can afford it.”

“It’s really because you want them individualized for you, isn’t it?”

“Yes; I suppose so.”

“Then why do you always get your mental clothes ready-made?”

“I don’t think I understand, Miss Polly,” he said gently.

“It seems to me that all your ideas and estimates and standards are of stock pattern,” she explained relentlessly.  “Inside, you’re as just exactly so as a pair of wooden shoes.  Can’t you see that you can’t judge all men on the same plane?”

“I see that you’re angry with me, and I see that I’m being punished for what I said about—­about Mr. Perkins.  If I’d known that you took any interest in him, I’d have bitten my tongue in two before speaking as I did.  As for the message, if you wish it, I’ll go to him—­”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” she interrupted.

“This much I can say, in honesty,” continued the Southerner, with an effort:  “I had a talk, almost an encounter, with him in the plaza, and I don’t believe he is the coward I thought him.”

His intent to be fair to the object of his scorn was so genuine that his critic felt a swift access of compunction.

“Oh, Fitz,” she said sweetly, “you’re not to blame.  I should have told you.  And you’re honest and loyal and a gentleman.  Only I wish sometimes that you weren’t quite so awfully gentlemanly a gentleman.”

The Southerner made a gesture of despair.

“If I could only understand you, Miss Polly!”

“Don’t hope it.  I’ve never yet understood myself.  But there’s a sympathy in me for the under dog, and this Mr. Perkins seems a sort of helpless creature.  Yet in another way he doesn’t seem helpless at all.  Quite the reverse.  Oh, dear!  I’m tired of Perkins, Perkins, Perkins!  Let’s talk about something pleasanter—­ like the plague.”