“Oh, I see,” said Arthur, his tone dropping a little. “I suppose it was a silly thing to do,” he added with a touch of stiffness.
“It was a profane kind of thing,” she said, sadly. “Don't you see, Arthur?”
“If I'm such a sinner, I don't see why you have anything to do with me.”
It stirred her profoundly that he didn't laugh, scoff at her; she had feared he might. She answered, very gravely:
“It's because I like you. You don't think it's a pleasure to me to find fault with you, do you Arthur?”
“Then why find fault?” he asked good-naturedly.
“But if the faults are THERE?” she persevered.
“Let's forget about 'em, then,” he answered with cheerful logic. “Everybody can't be good like YOU, you know.”
Missy felt nonplussed, though subtly pleased, in a way. Arthur DID admire her, thought her “good”—perhaps, in time she could be a good influence to him. But at a loss just how to answer his personal allusion, she glanced backward over her shoulder. In the moonlight she saw a tall man back there in the distance.
There was a little pause.