He never seemed to recognize that quiet background of superiority.
When she dropped an argument he always thought he had silenced her;
when she laughed he thought it tribute to his wit.
I hated to admit to myself how much Terry had sunk in my esteem.
Jeff felt it too, I am sure; but neither of us admitted it to the other.
At home we had measured him with other men, and, though we knew his failings,
he was by no means an unusual type. We knew his virtues too, and they had
always seemed more prominent than the faults. Measured among women--our
women at home, I mean--he had always stood high. He was visibly popular.
Even where his habits were known, there was no discrimination against him;
in some cases his reputation for what was felicitously termed "gaiety"
seemed a special charm.
But here, against the calm wisdom and quiet restrained humor
of these women, with only that blessed Jeff and my inconspicuous
self to compare with, Terry did stand out rather strong.
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