"What do you think of a girl who'd do that?"
"I don't judge anybody—any more. I've found out that this world isn't at all as I thought—as I was taught."
"Would you do it?"
She smiled faintly. "No," she replied uncertainly. Then she restored his wavering belief in her essential honesty and truthfulness by adding: "That is to say, I don't think I would."
She busied herself with her hair, feeling it to see whether it was not yet dry, spreading it out. He looked at her unseeingly. At last she said: "You must go. I've got to get dressed."
"Yes—I must be going," said he absently, rising and reaching for his hat on the center table.
She stood up, put out her hand. "I'm glad you came."
"Thank you," said he, still in the same abstraction. He shook hands with her, moved hesitatingly toward the door. With his hand on the knob he turned and glanced keenly at her. He surprised in her face a look of mystery—of seriousness, of sadness—was there anxiety in it, also? And then he saw a certain elusive reminder of her father—and it brought to him with curious force the memory of how she had been brought up, of what must be hers by inheritance and by training—she, the daughter of a great and simple and noble man——
"You'll come again?" she said, and there was the note in her voice that made his nerves grow tense and vibrate.
But he seemed not to have heard her question. Still at the unopened door, he folded his arms upon his chest and said, speaking rapidly yet with the deliberation of one who has thought out his words in advance: