Kenny wheeled, his face scarlet with guilt and confusion. Joan was beside him, her startled eyes dark with reproach. Even in his stammering moment of apology he was dismayed to find that her gown was commonplace, old and mended.
Joan caught his glance and colored.
"It's the dress I wear to Uncle," she said hurriedly. "I—I meant you never to see it. He doesn't know. Everything there in the cedar chest he hates. All of it belonged to my mother. He wouldn't like me to wear her gowns."
"In the name of Heaven," demanded Kenny, shocked, "why not? It's a beautiful thing—like the play-acting of a dryad!"
"My mother," said the girl in a low voice, "was on the stage."
Her challenging eyes, big and wistful, fanned his chivalry into reckless flame. The need of the hour was peculiar. There was little room for fact. In a moment of wayward impulse he had slipped up a stairway and blundered on a shrine. He must not make another mistake. The girl beside him was as timorous and defensive as a doe scenting an alien breath in the wood of wild things. A wrong step and in spirit she would bound away from him forever.
"Odd!" said Kenny gently. "So was mine." And he thought for a tormented minute of Brian and Garry and John Whitaker. Not one of them would understand. He wanted only to be kind and in tune.
Joan caught her breath. The softness and faith in her eyes hurt.
"You're not ashamed of it!"
"No," said Kenny, looking away, "Certainly not. Are you?"