“Where?” said Carrie, following his eyes.

“Over there in the corner—­way over.  Do you see that brooch?”

“Isn’t it large?” said Carrie.

“One of the largest clusters of jewels I have ever seen,” said Ames.

“It is, isn’t it?” said Carrie.  She felt as if she would like to be agreeable to this young man, and also there came with it, or perhaps preceded it, the slightest shade of a feeling that he was better educated than she was—­that his mind was better.  He seemed to look it, and the saving grace in Carrie was that she could understand that people could be wiser.  She had seen a number of people in her life who reminded her of what she had vaguely come to think of as scholars.  This strong young man beside her, with his clear, natural look, seemed to get a hold of things which she did not quite understand, but approved of.  It was fine to be so, as a man, she thought.

The conversation changed to a book that was having its vogue at the time—­“Molding a Maiden,” by Albert Ross.  Mrs. Vance had read it.  Vance had seen it discussed in some of the papers.

“A man can make quite a strike writing a book,” said Vance.  “I notice this fellow Ross is very much talked about.”  He was looking at Carrie as he spoke.

“I hadn’t heard of him,” said Carrie, honestly.

“Oh, I have,” said Mrs. Vance.  “He’s written lots of things.  This last story is pretty good.”

“He doesn’t amount to much,” said Ames.

Carrie turned her eyes toward him as to an oracle.

“His stuff is nearly as bad as ‘Dora Thorne,’” concluded Ames.

Carrie felt this as a personal reproof.  She read “Dora Thorne,” or had a great deal in the past.  It seemed only fair to her, but she supposed that people thought it very fine.  Now this clear-eyed, fine-headed youth, who looked something like a student to her, made fun of it.  It was poor to him, not worth reading.  She looked down, and for the first time felt the pain of not understanding.

Yet there was nothing sarcastic or supercilious in the way Ames spoke.  He had very little of that in him.  Carrie felt that it was just kindly thought of a high order—­the right thing to think, and wondered what else was right, according to him.  He seemed to notice that she listened and rather sympathized with him, and from now on he talked mostly to her.

As the waiter bowed and scraped about, felt the dishes to see if they were hot enough, brought spoons and forks, and did all those little attentive things calculated to impress the luxury of the situation upon the diner, Ames also leaned slightly to one side and told her of Indianapolis in an intelligent way.  He really had a very bright mind, which was finding its chief development in electrical knowledge.  His sympathies for other forms of information, however, and for types of people, were quick and warm.  The red glow on his head gave it a sandy tinge and put a bright