She looked up quaintly, appealing to him, desiring to be understood
without further explanation.
"Drunk?" said Traill.
She nodded.
"Poor devil!"
A thousand apprehensions fled--darkening--across her face. So pass
a flight of starlings with a thousand whirring wings that sweep out
light of the sun.
"You think I treated him badly?"
"No, I didn't say so."
"But you think it?" She begged eagerly, importunately.
"No, no, my dear child; no. What else could you do?"
"But you felt sorry for him?"
"Do you forbid it? I was putting myself in his shoes, feeling for
the moment what he must have felt. Sift it down and you'll find at
the bottom that I really said poor devil for myself." He laughed as
he looked at her. "Well, now," he went on, "we're getting more than
halfway through dinner and we haven't decided where we're going to
yet. What's it to be?"
"Really, I don't mind a little bit."
"Oh, you never give any help at all."
She laughed light-heartedly. "I find I get along quite all right if
I let you choose."
"You're satisfied?"
"Absolutely."
"Well, then; I'm not going to offer inviolable judgment. I'm only
going to make a suggestion.
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