“No, not mine. Is it a promise?”
“Of course.”
“I've found Tillie, Christine. I want you to go out to see her.”
Christine's red lips parted. The Street did not go out to see women in Tillie's situation.
“But, K.!” she protested.
“She needs another woman just now. She's going to have a child, Christine; and she has had no one to talk to but her hus—but Mr. Schwitter and myself. She is depressed and not very well.”
“But what shall I say to her? I'd really rather not go, K. Not,” she hastened to set herself right in his eyes—“not that I feel any unwillingness to see her. I know you understand that. But—what in the world shall I say to her?”
“Say what your own kind heart prompts.”
It had been rather a long time since Christine had been accused of having a kind heart. Not that she was unkind, but in all her self-centered young life there had been little call on her sympathies. Her eyes clouded.
“I wish I were as good as you think I am.”