“Don’t let Mr. Cobden know, just yet, that you are the one who has written the story. Write a new title-page without the name of the author.”
“All right, but——”
“It’s because you look like such a child, Pidge. No one would be able to see all that’s in your story—if they saw what a child you are!”
“I’ll do as you say. Thank you, but, Miss Claes——”
“Yes?”
“To-night under the light, I saw your hair—underneath!”
“Yes?”
“It made me see everything differently for a minute. You know I hate cults and everything that apes India and talks about saving the world; everybody talking about their souls, but doing the same old secret selfish things—oh, I’ve almost died of talk about all that—but for a minute, to-night under the lamp, it seemed that you knew, but had come down to brass tacks—your feet on the ground—living like the rest of us, but not ‘falling for’ love or money or fame, as we are. Are you really through talking about service—just doing it?”
Miss Claes laughed. “Such a lot of words, Pidge—about some gray hair.”
Pidge was intensely serious. “Are you English?” she began again.