Her voice was even as ever as she replied. "That would be delightful," she said. "Come in now and ask father, will you? Perhaps he'd come too. And I say, do let me read your verses. I'd like to so much."
Paul was suddenly shy. "Oh they're nothing," he said.
She smiled. "Mr. Tressor did not think so," she retorted. "Paul, I wonder if you're going to be a poet."
"I'm going to be a foreign missionary," he said.
"Well, you can be both. I expect abroad you would have no end of inspiration. You're not likely to be sent among utter savages. You're more likely to be made the head of some college or another, perhaps in India. You could write too. I should think Calcutta or Delhi, or some place like that, would be heavenly. And you'd go to the mountains in the summer. It makes me envious to think of you. You'll have a glorious life."
Paul grew grave. "I'd prefer to be among savages," he said.
"Why? Besides, do you think that's altogether right? God didn't give you your gifts for you to waste them. And they want the other sort of missionary just as much."
"I suppose they do," said Paul. "And if I lived that sort of life, I should marry. One could. I've always doubted if a pioneer missionary ought to marry."
Madeline nodded. "I think you're right. And besides, the wives of that sort of missionary do get so awfully dowdy. I suppose it doesn't matter what you wear among savages, and so they don't care any more about dressing. I'm afraid I could never be so good as all that."
Paul laughed. "Honestly, I can't see you dowdy, Madeline," he said.