Bob Berkley, too, had developed amazingly. He no longer said "Sir"
to Hale--that was bad form at Harvard--he called him by his first
name and looked him in the eye as man to man: just as June--Hale
observed--no longer seemed in any awe of Miss Anne Saunders and to
have lost all jealousy of her, or of anybody else--so swiftly had
her instinct taught her she now had nothing to fear. And Bob and
June seemed mightily pleased with each other, and sometimes Hale,
watching them as they galloped past him on horseback laughing and
bantering, felt foolish to think of their perfect fitness--the one
for the other--and the incongruity of himself in a relationship
that would so naturally be theirs. At one thing he wondered: she
had made an extraordinary record at school and it seemed to him
that it was partly through the consciousness that her brain would
take care of itself that she could pay such heed to what hitherto
she had had no chance to learn--dress, manners, deportment and
speech. Indeed, it was curious that she seemed to lay most stress
on the very things to which he, because of his long rough life in
the mountains, was growing more and more indifferent.
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