at the game.

"Oh," she said innocently, "I never thought of that! But wouldn't it
be wrong?"

"She's got the whole thing stereotyped. But it's dainty type anyhow,"
he thought. "Of course it wouldn't be wrong," he said. "It wouldn't
hurt him. Don't you know that nothing's wrong unless it hurts
somebody?"

"Yes," she said eagerly, "that's what I think. But all the same it
doesn't seem fair that you should take all that trouble for me and get
nothing in return."

"Well played! We're getting on!" he thought, and added aloud: "But
perhaps I shan't get nothing in return?"

Her eyes dropped over the wonderful thought that perhaps she might do
something for _him_. But what? She looked straight at him, and the
innocent appeal sent a tiny thorn of doubt through his armour of
complacency. Was she--after all? No, no novice could play the game so
well. And yet--

"I would do anything I could, you know," she said eagerly, "because it
is so awfully kind of you, and I do so want to be able to paint. What
can I do?"

"What can you do?" he asked, and brought his face a little nearer to
the pretty flushed freckled face under the shabby hat. Her eyes met
his. He felt a quick relenting, and drew back.