She had always been amused by Eaton’s oddities, his mysteriousness; but in this hour of dejection his sympathy and friendliness warmed her heart. She rose and stood before him, her hands clenched at her sides, and demanded passionately:—
“Why am I always doing the wrong thing? Why do I escape so often when I have every intention of doing what I know to be wrong? I suppose if I’d waited another day I shouldn’t have sneaked my money out of the trust company and turned it over to that man! But I’ve had escapes I don’t understand; something gets in the way and I don’t—I can’t—do things I fully mean to do! And I look back and shudder. Why is that—can you tell me?”
He lifted his arm with one of his familiar gestures and inspected his cuff-links absently.
“You’re seeing things a little black now, that’s all, Nan. When you gave up that money you thought it was the right thing to do. You saw the mistake yourself the moment after it was done. That’s just our human frailty. It’s our frailties that make life the grand fight it is!”
“That’s not very consoling,” she replied, with a rueful smile. “I suppose we never know how much we count in other people’s lives. Oh, I don’t mean that I do—except to do harm; I was thinking of you!”
His eyeglasses gleamed as he bent her a swift glance.
“I—I’d be very happy to think I’d been of use to somebody.”
“Oh, you saved me once from going clear over the brink! You didn’t know that, did you?” she cried earnestly.
“I most certainly did not!”
“If you don’t know,” she said gravely, “I shall never tell you. Are you really sure you don’t know what I’m talking about?”