Paddock’s joy in his work shone in his face; he was immensely pleased that Wayne had given him the evening. One of the dish-washers drew him away to meet a newcomer, and Wayne and Miss Morley regarded each other gravely. Her arms were bared to the elbows; she held a half-dried cup in her hands; a blue check apron covered her gown. There was no question of recognition; both remembered their former meeting. Wayne spoke at once.
“This is different from the art gallery. I was sorry about that. You were quite right—not to want to know me. I have thought about that afternoon a good deal.”
“I have thought about it too,” said the girl, “and I have been sorry I spoke to you as I did. I had no right to assume that you did not mean to be kind. I shouldn’t have stopped to talk to you that afternoon if I had not been so full of the picture that I really didn’t think about myself—or you. The portrait seemed somehow to make it right enough in the first place—it all seemed impersonal. But I didn’t like your wanting to take my sketch.”
“You didn’t like it,” said Wayne, “because I am who I am. And you were right. I have thought of it since and you were quite right. I am glad to have this chance of telling you so. I saw you in my sister’s house that same afternoon and I asked her who you were and she would not tell me—you see I am a very bad man,” he concluded, and bowed slightly, looking down at her hands that were long and fine, but labour-roughened, as he had seen that first day.
“I didn’t know you were interested in this sort of work,” she said, so obviously wishing to be kind that he smiled as their eyes met. Her crown of dark hair, her fair skin, her splendid blue eyes with their mystical gray shadows struck him anew.
“I can’t allow you to be deceived about me. I was never here before or in any such place. I have heard of such things, and haven’t approved of them. I came out to-night because Mr. Paddock is an old friend.”
“He is wonderful; I came to a service last Sunday out of curiosity; I had never seen any of this settlement work. He talked to the people as though he were one of themselves—I suppose you wouldn’t call it preaching at all—and it is easy to see how they all love him.”
“No doubt he interests them; but I suppose we’ll have to judge his work by its results,” he ventured, wishing to see what she would say.
“I don’t agree with that, Mr. Craighill. If a man has the heart for a work like this, that’s enough, isn’t it? The results don’t matter.”
He smiled at her earnestness, but replied gravely: