"I wish the horrible black-gowned man could know that," Helen said fiercely.
He looked down, smiling tolerantly. "But it doesn't matter now."
"It does. It will always matter. You were little—" She broke off and huddled herself closer in her shawl, as though she held a small thing in its folds.
He found nothing to say; he was swept by gratitude for this tenderness. It was, he knew, what she would have given to anything needing comfort, but it was no less wonderful for that and he was warmed by it and, at the same time, disturbed. She seemed to have her hands near his heart, and they were pressing closer.
"Go on," said Miriam, unconscious of the emotions that lived near her. "I like to hear about other people's miseries. Were you rather a funny little boy?"
"I expect so."
"Pale and plain, I should think," she said consideringly, "with too big a nose. Oh, it's all right now, rather nice, but little boys so often have noses out of proportion. I shall have girls. Did you wear black clothes on Sunday?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Poor little ugly thing! Helen, are you listening? Black clothes! And your hair oiled?"
"No, not so bad as that. My mother was a very particular lady."