He spoke wistfully, eagerly. "Does it? Why? You're the same Beatrix. You haven't changed."
"Are you the same Pelham Franklin? Haven't you changed? Let's be honest out here to-night. This is the hour for honesty with the moon so plain and the stars so gleaming and the sky so transparent. Besides, I can't tell you why, but I have a sort of premonition that you and I are going to be required to face another crisis. I got the feeling this afternoon, when I was lying down. A bird was singing outside my window, a curious, jerky little song, and it seemed to tell me that I must meet something squarely and with courage."
"Courage?" said Franklin. "You have that."
"You think so?"
"I don't know it if you haven't got it."
"That's the first really nice thing you've ever said to me, Pelham."
It was a pity that she couldn't see the queer thing that happened to his eyes. "I don't say everything I think," he said, with a sort of laugh.
"That's nothing to be proud of. There's lots of room for silence in the grave. Let's go back." She was impatient again. She couldn't understand why things were not going as she would have them go. They always had.
He stopped her. "No, not yet. I want to tell you something, kiddie."
Tears came into her eyes somehow when he called her that.