“Doctor Burns,” said she, “every boy has a rocking-horse. He's just the age to enjoy it. Surely it won't hazard his inventiveness: it will develop it. He'll ride all over the country, as you do in the Green Imp.”
“What's the price?”
“It's not costly and it's a very good one.”
Burns inquired the price again; this time he asked the salesman. Then he spoke low:
“Fifteen dollars seems 'not costly' to you, I suppose. Think of Bob yesterday, with not a toy to his name.”
“That's why I want to give him one to-day.”
“He'll be just as happy riding a stick—as soon as he forgets this.”
“He won't forget it. Look at his eyes.”
“You're looking at his eyes all the time. That's what undoes you.”
He had to look away from her eyes then himself, or he felt quite suddenly that he, too, would have been undone. He had resisted the entreaty in women's eyes many times, but not always, despite the reputation he held for indifference.