His own gaze was as direct.
"But not that sort," he commented softly, as if thinking aloud—"not that sort."
Jean, boy-like, offered her hand.
"Thank you," she said simply. "You're quite right. That's exactly why I'm running away. Good-by."
"Don't go!" He detained her hand, his face full of sympathy and perplexity. "I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am. It would be hard lines for a fellow, but when I see a girl"—his eyes added: "And such a girl!"—"roaming the country like a—a homeless—"
"Hobo?" supplied Jean.
He reddened guiltily.
"Hang it all!" he ended, "I can't stand it. You hit the nail on the head when you told me that the least I can do is to say nothing. But I trust that isn't all I can do. I want to help."
The girl's eyes misted.
"You have helped, you believe in me."