"I don't know," said she triumphantly.
But he understood. He had the spirit of adventure himself—one could see it at a glance—the spirit that instinctively shuns yesterday and all its works and wings eagerly into tomorrow, unknown, different, new—therefore better. But this girl, this child-woman—or was she rather woman-child?—penniless, with nothing but two eggs between her and starvation, alone, without plans, without experience—
What would become of her?. . . "Aren't you—afraid?" he asked.
"Of what?" she inquired calmly.
It was the mere unconscious audacity of ignorance, yet he saw in her now—not fancied he saw, but saw—a certain strength of soul, both courage and tenacity. No, she might suffer, sink—but she would die fighting, and she would not be afraid. And he admired and envied her.
"Oh, I'll get along somehow," she assured him in the same self-reliant tone. Suddenly she felt it would no longer give her the horrors to speak of what she had been through. "I'm not very old," said she, and hers was the face of a woman now. "But I've learned a great deal."
"You are sure you are not making a mistake in—in—running away?"
"I couldn't do anything else," replied she. "I'm all alone in the world. There's no one—except——
"I hadn't done anything, and they said I had disgraced them—and they——" Her voice faltered, her eyes sank, the color flooded into her face. "They gave me to a man—and he—I had hardly seen him before—he——" She tried but could not pronounce the dreadful word.
"Married, you mean?" said the young man gently.