Of the shabby stranger's earnestness there could be no doubt. His long arms waved and the perspiration welled out on his cheeks as he strove to present his arguments. At intervals Roger sneered audibly, though Judith listened attentively. But when he paused for breath, she shook her head.
"I sympathise with your point of view," she said with an effort at finality. "But I have nothing to say."
But he refused to be put off. "But Miss Wynrod, can't you see what an opportunity I'm giving? Here's a chance for you to set yourself right with the people. They think you live for nothing but money. They think you could fix everything up into an imitation of Heaven if you only weren't greedy. Why don't you show them that you are doing all you can, that you're thinking about things, that you're not the heartless, selfish, narrow, stupid creature they think you are. This is an opportunity to make yourself loved instead of hated. Why, Miss Wynrod, if you'll make a statement, I'll bring the proofs to you to correct. I won't put a comma in that you don't want. Wouldn't that be better than to go back and write a story and say that when I asked you what you thought about the burning to death of twenty-two women and children in one of your own mines, by your own hirelings, you replied that you had nothing to say?"
Roger was speechless with wrath at this torrent of what he thought was abuse, failing to distinguish between the general and the specific. It was only by an effort of will that he restrained himself from laying violent hands on this threadbare creature with the eloquent tongue, who, it appeared to him, was deliberately insulting his sister. But Judith herself felt no rancour. Indeed she felt the magnetism of the reporter more strongly with each word, and it never occurred to impugn the sincerity of his outburst—nor its justice. Her face struggled painfully in an effort to be cold and impassive as she barely whispered again her refusal to speak.
Good studied her for a moment. Then he smiled, quite cheerfully. All his hot tensity vanished suddenly.
"I think I understand," he said quietly. "It isn't that you won't talk to me—but you can't. You can't tell me what you think about these things—because you haven't thought about them. But you're going to, Miss Wynrod, you're going to. Some day I shall come back, and then you will talk to me. Perhaps you will even ask me to come back."
Roger laughed at that, but Judith was silent. She had a curious and not at all pleasant sense that this curious, contradictory, talkative stranger, with his grotesque form and clothes, and bad manners, not to say impudence, knew her better than she knew herself. He was perfectly right. She tried to tell herself that her refusal to talk to him was dictated by a finely conscious dignity. But she knew very well that such was not the case. He had indeed spoken truly when he said that she could not talk because she had not thought. She had not. And she was not at all incredulous at his prophecy that she might one day call him back. She would think more about these matters—she had begun, perforce but none the less certainly, to think about them already.
The reporter, still studying her quizzically, and so intently as to make her consciously uncomfortable, rose slowly.
"I'm sorry, Miss Wynrod. I've had a wasted trip—and yet I haven't. You're beginning to think. Some day you will talk. Perhaps I shall be present. I am glad we have become friends—you, too, Mr. Wynrod. Good morning."
In spite of his awkwardness, his movements were rapid. It seemed almost like a fairy disappearance, so quickly was he out of sight behind the hedge. Only his dilapidated straw hat could be seen bobbing rhythmically out of view.