no longer that of a young man for a young woman who means much to him. That light had died while the stream of her words poured out.
For a moment, when she had ceased, they stared at each other in silence, his face very grave, hers flushed and suggesting a superficial repentance.
"Forgive me," she plumped two words into the pause, as if pumping air into a vacuum. "I oughtn't to have said all that. It was rude."
"But true? You think it's true?"
"Yes."
"You have been working here in my father's store for months, and you say I could do more good by righting the wrongs here than anywhere else in the world. That sounds pretty serious."
"It is serious. Whether I ought to have spoken or not."
"I tell you, you ought to have spoken. It was—brave of you. That's the way I always think of you, Miss Child, being brave—whatever happens. And laughing."
"I don't laugh now."
"Not at other people's troubles—I know. But you would at your own."