She looked at him again with frankly puzzled, half-amused eyes. "How funny that sounds. I don't understand it a bit, but I daresay I shall when I have really been idle for two or three weeks. Tom says it will do me good before I start regular work. I am going to teach in a Board school in November."
"That seems a pity."
"Why? I have to earn my own living, remember!"
"Pardon me for saying that that seems to me a greater pity still."
The puzzled, amused look grew more pronounced. "And that sounds still funnier. Can't you see that some of us must work; there are so many of us nowadays. Besides, I like work; uncle used to say that was lucky, because I had to. You see I am absolutely alone in the world."
"And that is the greatest pity of all." His voice, soft, kind, courteous, carried them beyond the lightness of ordinary conversation in a moment, and Marjory, recognising the fact, felt none of her usually quick resentment at the intrusion of a stranger into her inner life; for she was not of those who parade their possession of a soul, perhaps because she took it as a matter of course.
"I suppose it is, in a way," she assented; "but I have been accustomed to the position all my life, and somehow I never regret it."
"That seems to me rather unnatural in a girl."
"It is very lucky," she retorted. "What would become of me if I were afraid?"
"You would probably lead a far happier life."