“About nine,” he estimated.
“Say, I'm sorry.” She spoke with a genuineness of feeling that surprised him. He went slowly, almost apologetically toward the door.
“Good night,” he said, “and thank you.”
Her look halted him.
“What's your hurry?” she demanded.
“I'm sorry,” he said hastily, “but I must be going.” He was, in truth, in a panic to leave.
“You're a minister, ain't you?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I guess you don't think much of me, do you?” she demanded.
He halted abruptly, struck by the challenge, and he saw that this woman had spoken not for herself, but for an entire outlawed and desperate class. The fact that the words were mocking and brazen made no difference; it would have been odd had they not been so. With a shock of surprise he suddenly remembered that his inability to reach this class had been one of the causes of his despair! And now? With the realization, reaction set in, an overpowering feeling of weariness, a desire—for rest—for sleep. The electric light beside the piano danced before his eyes, yet he heard within him a voice crying out to him to stay. Desperately tired though he was, he must not leave now. He walked slowly to the table, put his hat on it and sat down in a chair beside it.