“I am not one of the community,” she said. “I only stay because I have no other home but this. I have no money, … at least I know of none that is mine.” Lansing was silent and attentive.
“I—I heard your voice; … I wanted to speak to you—to hear you speak to me,” she said. A new timidity came into her tone; she raised her head. “I—somehow when you spoke—I felt that you—you were honest.” She stammered again, but Lansing’s cool voice brought her out of her difficulty and painful shyness.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“I’m Dr. Lansing,” he said.
“Will you open my steel box and read my papers for me?” she inquired, innocently.
“I will—if you wish,” he said, impulsively; “if you think it wise. But I think you had better read the papers for yourself.”
“Why, I can’t read,” she said, apparently surprised that he should not know it.
“You mean that you were not taught to read in your convent school?” he asked, incredulously.
A curious little sound escaped her lips; she raised both slender hands and unpinned her hat. Then she turned her head to his.
The deep-blue beauty of her eyes thrilled him; then he started and leaned forward, closer, closer to her exquisite face.