He said, “How come?” and turned again to look down at me, and I told him, and as I told him he listened hard, and once—of course I must have been mistaken—I thought his eyes filled.
“Well,” he said, after I finished, “Well,” and then, “You poor little chap!”
“Oh,” I said, “I’m all right now, but you see you helped me when I was unhappy and so it’s no more than fair that I should take you home, and—and—share my cream puffs—”
Then an old lady who carried a scaldino—which is a funny little stove that stands on legs and looks like a stewpot—came out of the door, and we stood up.
“Can you move?” I asked anxiously.
“You bet I can,” I heard, “I feel great! Come on, little friend—”
“You take my arm,” I ordered, and he did. And he insisted upon carrying the umbrella too, which we didn’t open, and every once in a while he leaned down so he could look under my hat, and then he would say, “You say you aren’t homesick any more?”
And I’d say, “No, not any more—”
And he’d answer with, “That’s right. . . . You mustn’t be unhappy, you know! You just mustn’t be that!”
We walked in an awfully funny way, because his stride was miles long, and of course mine had to be short. And when he tried to shorten his stride, it made him teeter like a Japanese official—I know about these because our choral society gave The Mikado two years ago—while if I tried to accommodate my step to his I looked as if I were doing the bent knee walk the twins do, that lowers their bodies and shortens their legs and looks awfully funny; and they always do it back of Roberta when she is all dressed up and starts out to do her fancy calling.