"I wish I were a woman," he muttered; "I can never tell you how sorry I am for you, and if I were a woman I could put my arms round you, and you'd know."
It was a beautiful thing to say, but he said it badly, because he felt it too much to make it effective. No woman should deride a boy's love. It is ludicrous, but it is ludicrous only because it is so genuine. He has not learnt yet to trick the truth out. He does not know yet that before one could make converts to the very truths of God they had to be presented with art.
"Have you any idea when you'll go?" she inquired. He was to travel with a friend, who was visiting in England.
"I may get a letter any day," he answered.
"Are you in a hurry?"
"No."
"I thought you were?"
He was dumb.
"I've been quite loyal to you—I haven't said a word of what I think to your people when they've talked of you."
"I knew you wouldn't. It only needs a word to make them back out."