“Philanthropically?”
“Don’t you see? There can’t be any other explanation of it. It’s an eleemosynary institution. That’s what it is.”
Nancy met his expectant eyes with a trifle of wildness in her own, but he continued to hold her gaze triumphantly.
“Don’t you see,” he repeated, “doesn’t everything point to that as the only possible explanation? It’s some rich woman’s plaything. That accounts for the food, the setting,—everything in fact that has puzzled us. Amateur,—that’s the word; effective, delightful but inexperienced. It sticks out all over the place.”
“The food isn’t amateur,” Nancy said, a little resentfully.
“Nothing is amateur but the spirit behind it, through which we profit. Don’t you see?”
“I’m beginning to see,” Nancy admitted, “perhaps you are right. I guess the place is run philanthropically. I—I hadn’t quite realized it before.”
“What did you think?”
“I knew that the—one who was running it 92 wasn’t quite sure where she was coming out, but I didn’t think of it is an eleemosynary institution.”
“Of course, it is.”