“I do not know. It has not come my way, perhaps. It naturally would come in yours.”
And Martin looked down at her beneath the pink shade of her parasol with that kindness in his eyes of which Netty had had so large a share.
“Oh no!” she protested, with a little movement of the shoulders descriptive of a shrinking humility. “Why should I? I have done nothing to deserve it. And yet, perhaps you are right. Everybody is so kind—my uncle and aunt—everybody. I am very fortunate, I am sure. I wonder why it is?”
And she looked up inquiringly into Martin's face as if he could tell her, and, indeed, he looked remarkably as if he could—if he dared. He had never met anybody quite like Netty—so spontaneous and innocent and easy to get on with. Conversation with her was so interesting and yet so little trouble. She asked a hundred questions which were quite easy to answer; and were not stupid little questions about the weather, but had a human interest in them, especially when she looked up like that from under her parasol, and there was a pink glow on her face, and her eyes were dark, almost as violets.
“Ought I to be here?” she asked. “Going about the streets alone, I mean?”
“You are not alone,” answered Martin, with a laugh.
“No, but—perhaps I ought to be.”
And Martin, looking down, saw nothing but the top of the pink parasol.
“In America, you know,” said the voice from under the parasol, “girls are allowed to do so much more than in Europe. And it is always best to be careful, is it not?—to follow the customs of the country, I mean. In France and Germany people are so particular. I wanted to ask you what is the custom in Warsaw.”
Martin stepped to one side in order to avoid the parasol.