"I don't think even he'd mind my praise!"
"I don't agree with him," she pursued thoughtfully, "unless, of course, a person is naturally conceited and complacent, and then I don't think it matters one way or the other; the person will remain complacent anyway. But I think a little praise cheers one up! I'm just delighted you think that good!"
"It's more than good," earnestly.
"Oh, if he could hear you! And me!"
She stooped to pick up from the floor a sheet of foreign note-paper scrawled over with large uneven writing.
"Sheila Pat," she said, "to-morrow's mail day. We write an awful lot. But we can't get any letters from them yet."
She took the photographs from him and put them away in the drawer.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
She turned to him with a little laugh, and held out her hand.
"I've been awfully mean—had mean thoughts about you—been rude to you." Her words tumbled out in a soft little jumble. "I'm sorry."