“They are doing it themselves.”
“I will say nothing to wound your modesty, sir.”
“Now I must wake up. I must! There's nothing worth while in the profit for both your father and myself. I want him to have the proposition alone. There'll be a fair make for him. I didn't intend to stay here so long. I guess I sort of forgot myself.” He went on with his figures.
“But I knew you could not forget,” she ventured, after a pause.
He glanced up and found a queer expression on her countenance. There were frank sympathy and friendliness in her eyes. He had revolved bitter thoughts alone, struggling with a problem he could not master. In sudden emotion—in an unpremeditated letting-go of himself—he reached out for somebody in whom to confide. He needed counsel in a matter where no man could help him. This girl was the only one who could understand.
“There may be letters waiting for me in the city—in the big city where I may be expected,” he blurted. “I haven't dared to send any.” He hesitated, and then gave way to his impulse. “Miss Polly, I haven't any right to trouble you with my affairs. I may seem impertinent. But you are a girl! Does a girl usually sit down and think over all the difficulties—when she doesn't get letters—and then make allowances?”
“I'm sure she does—when she loves anybody.”
“And yet it may seem very strange. I am worried out of my senses. I don't know what to do.”
She was silent for a long time, looking away from him and twisting her hands in her lap; she was plainly searching her soul for inspiration—and courage!
“You think she will understand the situation?” he insisted.