With
something of the round-eyed curiosity and interest of a child, she
looked at every new face, asking herself, "What is he like?" not
whether he will like and admire me, although she had not a little
feminine pleasure in discovering that strangers were inclined to do
this. Her disapproval of Maynard arose chiefly from the feeling that
his gallantry at such a time, with the dead and dying all about
them, was "more shocking than a game of cards on Sunday." She
regarded his attentions, glances, tones, as mere well-bred
persiflage, indulged in for his own amusement, and she put him down
as a trifler for his pains. That he, as she would phrase it, "was
just smitten without any rhyme or reason" seemed preposterous. She
had done nothing for him as she had for Scoville. The friendly or
the frankly admiring looks of strangers, the hearty gratitude and
goodwill of the wounded, she could accept with as much pleasure as
any of her sex; but she had not yet recognized that type of man who
looks at a pretty woman and is disposed to make love to her at once.
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