She looked around at me quizzically, very much amused.
"You consider that an apology?" she asked.
"I intended it to be one," I replied. "I have been rude. I hope you'll forgive me."
"You are a philosopher, I see," she said with a smile. "I am sorry to annoy you."
"Y—you don't, I think. You seem to be a sensible sort of a person."
She smiled again most cheerfully.
"Don't bother, Mr. Canby. We're well met. I'm not fond of meaningless personalities—or the authors of them."
She really was a proper sort of a person. Her conversation had no frills or fal-lals, and she wasn't afraid to say what she thought. Presently we began speaking the same language. We talked of the country, the wonderful weather and of Jerry, to whom it seemed she had taken a fancy.
"You've created something, Mr. Canby—a rare thing in this age—" she looked off into the distance, her eyes narrowing slightly. "But he can't remain as he is."
"Why not?" I asked quickly. "Knowledge of evil isn't impurity."