"I had never known before. It is strange to confess such a thing, but it is true. I—I do not believe I am weak as compared with others. Never before have I had any occasion to question the supremacy of my will, yet I learned a lesson last night—that I am not a saint. I actually faced crime, and it did not even look horrible to me! it appeared justified. Even now, sitting here with you, I cannot believe I was wicked. You will not misconstrue my words, but—but life is not always the same, is it? How inexpressibly cruel a great city may be with glaring wealth flaunting itself in the pinched face of poverty. How can I help being rebellious now that I have seen all this through hungry eyes?"
Her hands were clasped above her plate, the slender fingers intertwined. I was looking at her so intently forgot to answer.
"I—I am glad I met you," she said frankly. "I—I think you have saved me from myself."
"You asked me my name," I broke in eagerly. "Would you mind telling me who you are?"
"I?" the clear cheeks reddening. "Why, I am only a fool."
"Then there is, at least, one tie between us. But, if we are to remain friends I must know how to address you."
Her red lips parted doubtfully, her brow wrinkling.
"Yes, and we cannot afford to be conventional, can we? I am Viola Bernard."
"I knew a girl once by that name; ages ago it seems now. A little thing in short skirts, but I thought her rather nice. I believe we are inclined to like names associated with pleasant memories. So I am glad your name is Viola."
"It was my mother's name," she said quietly, her eyes downcast, "and I am not sorry you like it." She stirred the coffee in her cup, watching the bubbles rise to the surface. "I feel more confidence in you than I did, because you have been so honest about yourself."