“I’ll keep on talking,” Bibbs continued, cheerfully, “and you keep on laughing.  I’m amounting to something in the world this afternoon.  I’m making a noise, and that makes you make music.  Don’t be bothered by my bleating out such things as that.  I’m really frightened, and that makes me bleat anything.  I’m frightened about two things:  I’m afraid of what I’ll think of myself later if I don’t keep talking—­ talking now, I mean—­and I’m afraid of what I’ll think of myself if I do.  And besides these two things, I’m frightened, anyhow.  I don’t remember talking as much as this more than once or twice in my life.  I suppose it was always in me to do it, though, the first time I met any one who didn’t know me well enough not to listen.”

“But you’re not really talking to me,” said Mary.  “You’re just thinking aloud.”

“No,” he returned, gravely.  “I’m not thinking at all; I’m only making vocal sounds because I believe it’s more mannerly.  I seem to be the subject of what little meaning they possess, and I’d like to change it, but I don’t know how.  I haven’t any experience in talking, and I don’t know how to manage it.”

“You needn’t change the subject on my account, Mr. Sheridan,” she said.  “Not even if you really talked about yourself.”  She turned her face toward him as she spoke, and Bibbs caught his breath; he was pathetically amazed by the look she gave him.  It was a glowing look, warmly friendly and understanding, and, what almost shocked him, it was an eagerly interested look.  Bibbs was not accustomed to anything like that.

“I—­you—­I—­I’m—­” he stammered, and the faint color in his cheeks grew almost vivid.

She was still looking at him, and she saw the strange radiance that came into his face.  There was something about him, too, that explained how “queer” many people might think him; but he did not seem “queer” to Mary Vertrees; he seemed the most quaintly natural person she had ever met.

He waited, and became coherent.  “You say something now,” he said.  “I don’t even belong in the chorus, and here I am, trying to sing the funny man’s solo!  You—­”

“No,” she interrupted.  “I’d rather play your accompaniment.”

“I’ll stop and listen to it, then.”

“Perhaps—­” she began, but after pausing thoughtfully she made a gesture with her muff, indicating a large brick church which they were approaching.  “Do you see that church, Mr. Sheridan?”

“I suppose I could,” he answered in simple truthfulness, looking at her.  “But I don’t want to.  Once, when I was ill, the nurse told me I’d better say anything that was on my mind, and I got the habit.  The other reason I don’t want to see the church is that I have a feeling it’s where you’re going, and where I’ll be sent back.”

She shook her head in cheery negation.  “Not unless you want to be.  Would you like to come with me?”

“Why—­why—­yes,” he said.  “Anywhere!” And again it was apparent that he spoke in simple truthfulness.