“Absolute finality! Oh, I know! Everything outside the little rigid fence, ununderstandable, unmentionable! No vision, no real sympathy, no real knowledge. What can one do? I often wonder whether the child will grow up like that.”
“Lynette?”
He nodded.
She looked at him with that peculiar brightening of the eyes and tender tremulousness of the mouth.
“Oh, no! You see, she’s—she’s sensitive, and not a little woman in miniature. I mean, she won’t have the society shell hardened on her before her soul has done growing.”
His face warmed and brightened.
“By George, how you put things! That’s the whole truth in a nutshell. Keep growing. Keep the youngsters growing. Smash away the crust of convention!”
She began to gather up her belongings, and Canterton watched her cleaning her brushes and putting them back into their case. A subtle veil of shyness had fallen upon her. She had realised suddenly that he was no longer an impersonal figure sitting there and dispassionately discussing certain superficial aspects of life, but a big man who was lonely, a man who appealed to her with peculiar emphasis, and who talked to her as to one who could understand.
“I must be off home. I thought I should finish this to-day, but I will ask you not to look at it till to-morrow.”
“Just as you please.”