David bit into a cooky. "Fine! This is good of you. Ordinarily I'm not hungry at all at noon—habit, you know. But to-day I am. How did you happen to guess it?"
"I didn't guess it. I just thought—" She looked up at him again, timidly. "Often I bring more than I can eat, and if—"
He had to smile at that. "Isn't that a little obvious? I could go out if I wanted to, you know."
"Oh, I didn't mean that!" She was overcome by confusion.
"And I didn't mean to snub you," he smiled again. "You needn't apologize. One need never be ashamed of a bit of hospitality, need one?" To give her time to recover, he went on, "There's a good deal of that around here, isn't there? Tell me something about Mr. Radbourne. You've been here some time, I believe."
"Two years. He's the best and kindest—"
She entered, eager to cover up her late awkwardness, upon a glowing history of their employer's multifarious kindness. There was Miss Brown, the stenographer, rescued from the department store where she had been "dying on her feet," sent to a commercial school and given a position she never could fill. And Blake, the collector, who had lung trouble and half the time was not able to report for duty. And Hegner, who was a genius but had a burning palate, picked up almost from the gutter and given an important place in the shop in the hope that responsibility would restore the shattered will. And Smith, the latest recruit, but recently out of the penitentiary.
"Though I wish he hadn't taken him in. He looks bad and has fishy eyes and is always so surly."
"Is this a business or a sort of hospital for broken lives?" David inquired.
"I think in his heart Mr. Radbourne is more interested in the hospital."