"But it's true," said John Dene, turning to her.
"But you don't always say a thing just because it's true, do you?" she enquired.
"Sure," was the uncompromising response.
"But," continued Dorothy, "suppose one day I was looking very plain and unattractive, would you tell me of it?"
"You couldn't."
This was said with such an air of conviction that Dorothy felt her cheeks burn, and she lowered her eyes. John Dene, she decided, could be extremely embarrassing. His conversation seemed to consist of one-pound notes: he had no small change.
For some time she remained silent, again leaving the conversation to John Dene and her mother. He was telling her something of his early struggles and adventures, first in Canada, then in America and finally in Canada again. How he had lost both his parents when a child, and had been adopted by an uncle and aunt who, apparently, made no attempt to disguise the fact that they regarded him as an expensive nuisance. At twelve he had run away, determined to carve out his own career, "And I did it," he concluded.
"But how did you manage to do it in the time?" asked Mrs. West.
"I was thirty-seven last fall. I began at twelve. You can do a rare lot in twenty-five years—if you don't happen to have too many ancestors hanging around," he added grimly.
"I think you are very wonderful," was Mrs. West's comment, and John Dene knew she meant it.