She turned wet eyes upon him reproachfully. "From you?"
"But is any—individual—worth it?"
"Oh I suppose no 'individual' is worth much to you," she said a little bitterly.
There was a touch of irony in the tender smile which was his only response.
They stood there in silence watching men and women come and go—solitary and in groups—groups tired and groups laughing—groups respectable and groups questionable—humanity—worn humanity—as it crossed that bridge.
She recalled that first night she had talked with him—that first time a hot day had seemed to her anything more than mere hot day, that night on the Mississippi—where distant hills were to be seen. She remembered how she had looked around the world that night to see if it needed "saving." It seemed a long time ago since she had not been able to see that the world needed saving.
That was the night the man who mended the boats told her she had walked sunny paths. She looked up at him with a faint smile, smiling at the fancy of his being an outsider.
It seemed, on the other hand, that all the hopes and fears in all the hearts that were passing them were drawing them together. There had been times when she had had a wonderful sense of their silences holding the sum of man's experiences.
"You must go home," he was saying decisively.
"Home? Where? To my uncle's? That's where I keep the trunks I'm not using."