“Doesn’t everybody?”
“Oh, no indeed. Very few people do. Most of us grow crooked—there’s always something in the path that throws us out of line. Sometimes it throws us up and sometimes it throws us down, but you’ve grown right straight ahead. Now I can tell by the way you look at me that I’m not at all the kind of woman you expected I would be.”
He was a little disconcerted at this frankness.
“No,” he said, at last, “you’re right there. I can’t quite make you out.”
“I’ve had obstacles, you see,” she said, her face clouding for an instant. “I’ve grown crooked.”
“I heard of your mother’s death,” he said, gently. “I shall never forget her, though I met her only once.”
“Yes—dear mother. She thought a great deal of you. So did father.”
“Your father was very kind to me,” he said.
She looked quickly into his face.
“Things have not been well with us,” she said, with a little catch in her voice. “I had to go to work. I found I had some little artistic talent, and I turned it to account. And I’ve made a lot of good friends here.”