"A bit of Paul's work," he explained.
She took it in her hand, but for the time being her interest in the immaturities of art gave place to the strange realities in whose presence she felt herself to be. She glanced at it perfunctorily, a little sketch of a woman carrying a basket, well observed and sympathetic.
"Yes," she answered. "He has a real gift. But just now I can't think about that. I 'm thinking about you."
"I 've saddened you," he said. "I didn't want to do that. I should have held my tongue. But if you could know what it means to talk to you at all, you 'd forgive me. I 'm not regretting, you know; I 'm going through it of my own free will; but it 's a lonely business. I 'm always glad of a tramp making his way along the railway line, and Paul was a godsend. But you! Oh, you 'll never understand how splendid it is to tell you anything and have you listen to it."
He spoke almost humbly, but with a warmth of sincerity that moved her.
"You 'll have to tell me more," she said. "You 'll be coming here again?"
"Indeed I will," he replied quickly. "I 'll be here often, if only in the hope that you 'll come down to the dam sometimes. But—there 's one thing."
"Yes?" asked Margaret.
"You know, it won't do for you to be seen with me," he said gently. "It won't do at all."
Margaret laughed. "I think I can bear up against the ill-report of the neighborhood," she said. "My kingdom is not of this particular world. We won't bother about that, please."