“Nonsense! Who ever heard of a beer-driver being beautiful? And such an enormous creature, and the kind of work he does, and—and such clothes!”
“They look as if they were quite happy—and didn’t care to be anything else.”
Her brows contracted. “Aren’t you prejudiced against him just because—well, maybe, because of the kind of work he does?”
“I think maybe I am. I should think anybody might be.”
“I see. You was thinking something ugly about him—so, of course, he wouldn’t look nice to you. You see, I wasn’t. I think maybe he does that kind of work because he was never taught to do anything else. If your work isn’t lovely, I think you deserve all the more credit, if you can be glad while you’re doing it.”
“But don’t you see—people choose their work—they choose to be what they are.”
“Not at all. I didn’t. Did you?”
“And just see how—how loud he is! And notice the color of his face and hands!”
“Yes,” she said. She continued to look critically, and her eyes were filled with joy when the driver suddenly leaned back and laughed until the sound reached them above the scores of other noises. “That’s because he laughs so much, and is out in the sun and the weather most of the time. I think he’s lovely—yes, I do. For my part, I’d like to get up on the seat and ride with him. I’ll bet he would take good care of you. And you can see that nice girl would, too.”