"Let’s turn down Madison Avenue," suggested Vincent.
"That’s out of my way."
"But you’re in no hurry. Please!"
She consented; she had no particular reason for not doing so. He took her arm as they turned into the darker, quieter street, and went on with her so, like a young lover, his head turned toward her, listening eagerly, watching her face.
"Now tell me about it," he said. "Tell me what it is that’s made you change so."
She didn’t answer.
"It was you, and all the dreadful pain you caused me," she thought, but without bitterness; with only immeasurable sadness and regret that it should have been so.
"I’ve been working with two very nice girls," she said aloud. "They’ve helped me, and I’ve learned a lot from them."
He asked her a great many questions. He was really interested in it all, and in the effect of this commercial adventure upon her crude soul. It was the first time any one had shown a real interest in her heart and her mind. He didn’t care so much about what she did, as what she felt. She could not help talking freely, with a sense of great relief. All the observation of her shrewd and intelligent mind, so friendless and so little understood, came to her lips now—not the naïve egoism of a young girl in love, but the wit, the vigour, the soundness of a woman of character.
They turned into Fifth Avenue at Twenty-Third Street, and went on down-town, for Angelica had promised to show Vincent her millinery shop.