“I shall be delighted to come with you,” Henry Wolverton said.
“You!” Susan exclaimed. “But don’t you understand the risk? The mob’s loose. What good would you be against three or four chunky hooligans?”
Henry Wolverton squared his shoulders. He was a tall, finely-built man, and his face had the cool assurance of one who has never known fear.
“I am not afraid of hooligans,” he said.
Susan gazed at him with frank admiration.
“You know you’re a perfect topper in some ways,” she complimented him.
He bowed gravely. “If I might be admitted to this meeting of yours,” he said; “it would perhaps afford me an opportunity to begin my education.”
“If you’re sure you’re not afraid,” Susan replied, picking up her hat.
“I’m not in the least afraid,” he said. “Will you take my arm?”
At the open door they paused a moment, looking out into the darkness; listening to the profound silence of the empty night—creative youth and patient scholarship, hand-in-hand, facing the immense void of the unforetellable future.