“‘No!’ she exclaimed. ‘He believes it! He cannot help it. No, no!’
“The man did not speak again. He stooped under the slanting boards and went away.
“And now comes what Eric says was the strangest part of it—the way he took it. Back of the glamour of the girl’s lovely face; back of the pull of her, standing there in the slackening rain holding her wet skirts about her, her neck bare; back of the wonder of her, there rose a bank of his sane self—that self indifferent to all else. There towered a steeple of his future as he had planned it; of his ambitions; of his wealth and fame which were just beginning and for which he had worked hard. They grew—these steeples—and pushed closer. The girl watched him.
“She had not spoken to him since her father had gone away; she had stood aside while Eric got the car out upon the road; she had followed him to it and stood there clasping her bare elbows—lips parted like the Raphael girl-child, he said. She was oblivious to watchers behind drawn curtains.
“‘Now what shall you do?’ he asked her. ‘Does he mean it?”
“‘Yes, he means it. I shall walk to the next town. There will be something for me to do there.’
“‘I’m sorry——’ he began, all the steeples crowding around him.
“‘Don’t be. I’m glad. It gives me a chance to be brave as she was.’
“She put up one hand to her mouth and pressed her lips tight with it.
“‘It’s odd, isn’t it?’ she asked.