“I came,” he said, “on business. I must see Villard. But they tell me he won’t be home for several days. There’s a certain combination of forces we want to get him into, if possible.”
“You won’t, you know,” laughed Marion, “unless it’s for the good of the working-men.”
“Well, it is,” answered Burnham. “A society is being planned for Lowell, which will do for the operatives there something like that which Villard and Salome and you have been doing here. I said I would come down and consult with him to-night. Besides, I——can’t you guess any other reason for my coming?”
“Oh, plenty of them,” replied Marion indifferently. “I suppose you feel a friendship for all who were once your people, and rather want to see them once more.”
“Not that, at all,” said he significantly, determined now that she should hear him out. “Are you going home? May I walk down with you?”
Marion gave her permission and went for her wraps. She half felt what was coming, but she was strangely apathetic.
When they were out under the stars, the talk began in commonplaces; but Burnham soon veered it round where he chose.
“Why are you so cold?” he asked, half querulously.
“Cold?” she repeated, purposely misunderstanding him. “I’m not cold. This wrap I have on is warmer than it looks.”
“And your heart,—is that?” retorted he.