The younger girl was looking at him. Her wide expectant eyes rested on his face with a frankness and interest that touched his mood anew.
"Poor little thing," he said, half aloud; "if I were to see her bound hand and foot and cast into a den of wolves, I might hope to rescue her; but from this, for such as she there is absolutely no escape. How dare people bring into the world those who must suffer?"
"Huh?" said a voice beside him. He had spoken in a semi-audible tone, and his neighbor had responded after his habitual fashion, to what he looked upon as an overture to conversation.
"I did not intend to speak aloud," said Avery, turning to glance at the man beside him; "but I was just wondering how people dared to have children—girls particularly."
The man beside him turned his full face upon him and examined him critically from head to foot. Then he laughed. It was the first time he had ever heard it hinted that it was not a wholly commendable thing to bring as many children into the world as nature would permit. His first thought had been that Avery was insane, but after looking at him he decided that he was only a grim joker.
"I reckon they don't spend no great deal of time prayin' over the subject," he said, laughing again. Then he crossed his legs and added, "an' I don't suppose they get any telegrams tellin' them they're goin' to be girls, neither. If they did, a good many men would lick the boy that brought the despatch, for God knows most of us would a dam sight ruther have boys."
The laugh had died out of his voice, and there was a ring of disappointment and aggrieved trouble in it. Selden Avery shifted his position.
"I was not looking at it from the point of view of the parents of unwelcome girls," he said, presently, "but from the outlook of the girls of unwelcome parents. The reckoning from that side looks to me a good deal longer than the other." His voice was pleasant, but his eyes looked perplexed and determined. His neighbor began to readjust his opinion of Avery's sanity, and moved his chair a little farther away before he spoke.
"Got any children of your own?" he inquired, succinctly. Avery shook his head. The man drew down the comers of his mouth in a contemptuous grimace. "I thought not. If you had, you'd take it a dam sight easier. Children are an ungrateful lot. They're never satisfied—or next to never. They think you're made for their comfort instead of their bein' for yours. I've got nine, and I know what I'm talkin' about. If you've got any sympathy to throw away don't waste it on children. Parents, in these days of degenerate youngsters, are passin' around the hat for sympathy. In my day it was just the other way. If one of the young ones went wrong, people pitied the father and blamed the child. Now-a-days they blame the father and weep over the young one that makes the mischief. It makes me mad."
He shut his teeth with a suddenness that suggested a snap, and flashed a defiant look about the room.