“Do you do it on purpose, I wonder?” I thought, with some indignation, as I glanced at John’s imperturbable face. I was very tender always with Sara’s sudden little sadnesses. I think there is no one who comprehends a girl passing through the shadow-land of doubt and vague questioning that lies beyond youth so well as the old maid who has made the journey herself, and knows of a surety that there is sunshine beyond. Obeying a sudden impulse, I asked the question aloud. Sara was in front of us, out of hearing.
“Do I do what on purpose, Miss Martha? Tell anecdotes?”
“You know what I mean very well, Mr. Hoffman. Her sadness was real for the moment; why wound her?”
“Wound her! Is a woman wounded by a trifling joke?”
“But her nature is peculiarly sensitive.”
“You mistake her, I think, Miss Martha. Sara St. John is coated over with pride like an armor; she is invulnerable.”
I could not quite deny this, so I veered a little. “She is so lonely, Mr. Hoffman!” I said, coming round on another tack.
“Because she so chooses.”
“It may not be ‘choose.’ Mr. Hoffman, why should you not try to—” Here I looked up and caught the satirical smile on my companion’s face, and, vexed with myself, I stopped abruptly.
“You are a good friend, Miss Martha.”