“It suits me. After all, there’s nothing better in life than really serving the people who need you, is there?”
“Sometimes there is,” he answered promptly. “It may mean the sacrifice of a fine life to a much less valuable one.”
A faint color rose in her cheeks.
“Well, you see,” she said, “I don’t feel wise and perfect enough to judge which lives are the most valuable.”
He was silent, because he could not well say that her life was a hundred times more valuable than all the Mrs. Carews and Dr. Hunters ever born—that in her grave youth, and her fine and dignified simplicity, she seemed to him absolutely invaluable.
“I dare say you’re right,” he answered seriously. “I’m sure your way is a good way. If you think you really would care to talk to me, when may I come again?”
“I have Sunday afternoons off,” she answered, and he believed there was a hint of a laugh in her voice.
“Then I’ll come at—”
“Oh, no! That’s not the way it’s done. I’ll meet you somewhere and we’ll take a walk,” she said, and this time she could not suppress a smile.
Alan refused to smile, however. He didn’t care if she came in an apron. He was willing to sit on the back steps, or in the kitchen, so long as he could be with her. It wasn’t a joke—it was serious, the most serious thing he had ever known.