K. G. frowned. The conversation was not proceeding on orthodox lines.
“Still, as I say, young men of that sort do not get on.”
“I can’t see why. Perhaps he thought you could teach him nothing.”
It was the protective mother instinct compelled the words. The remark annoyed K. G. excessively. It was not, however, his habit to vent irritation upon a woman, even though she might be its original cause, consequently he attacked Wynne Rendall.
“He is a fellow who wants a good kicking, and has never had it.”
“A man always wants to kick what he cannot understand,” said Eve.
To defend some one who is absent from the attacks of a third person is a sure basis upon which friendships are established. When Eve returned to her little bed-sitting-room after the rehearsal, Wynne Rendall occupied a large share of her thoughts.
“I like him,” she said to herself. “He’s all wrong in all sorts of ways, but there’s something tremendous about him in spite of that—and I like him.”
She fell to wondering how he had arrived at what he was, what queer turns of circumstance or inclination had aged the youth from him. With quickening sympathy she recalled his sunken cheeks, the nervous sensitive movements of his hands and head.
“Looks as if he never had enough to eat. I’m sure he doesn’t eat enough.”