And a candid deliberate
self-examination would have convinced Rose that she didn't, in spite of
the sentimentally warm March wind that was blowing her hair about. She
was less moved by the half-back's sorrows this morning than at any time
during the last six months. She'd hardly have minded the boil before
to-day.
Six months ago, he had been a very wonderful person to her. There had
been a succession of pleasant--of really thrilling discoveries. First,
that he'd rather dance with her than with any other girl in the
university. (You're not to forget that he was a celebrity. During the
football season, his name was on the sporting page of the Chicago papers
every day--generally in the head-lines when there was a game to write
about, and Walter Camp had devoted a whole paragraph to explaining why
he didn't put him on the first all-American eleven but on the second
instead--a gross injustice which she had bitterly resented.)
There was a thrill, then, in the discovery that he liked her better than
other girls, and a greater thrill in the subsequent discovery that she
had become the basis of his whole orientation.
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