‘Bel—unhappy!’ His astonishment was manifest. But then—Sheila had not seen the look in her eyes. ‘I doubt it,’ he added with a touch of bitterness.
‘I don’t,’ the soft voice persisted. ‘She’s bound to be—if she cares.’
‘But if she cared, how could she—?’
The note of pain in his voice gave her still more courage.
‘You said—she didn’t understand, and that poisons everything.’
Touched to the heart he said impulsively ‘Sheila, what a wise little Mouse you are!’
It was his old nickname for her and she drew in a quick breath. ‘Not so very! But I do know—about caring.’
‘The first best knowledge surely,’ he said: then Keith appeared and bade them hurry up.
But her eyes, shining on him through tears, and her words that gave him a new point of view lingered in his memory. Odd how readily he could speak of Bel to Sheila, how hardly to his mother, with whom he could talk of everything in earth or heaven. And surely no one but Sheila could have been inspired to couple sympathy for himself with so tender and delicate a plea for Bel. If she were right, if Bel were really suffering, the door of hope might still be ajar. Meantime there was his speech; for which he had made comprehensive notes; there were convictions and appeals that he must drive home to the hearts of his hearers; and while he sat smoking in silence beside Keith—who drove the car—words full of vigour and fire came crowding into his brain—
When at length he stood on the platform waiting for his clamorous welcome to subside, the flame of his own conviction burnt away all nervousness, all dread of failure; and for half an hour he spoke as none had imagined he could speak, himself least of all.