He plunged at once into the subject that had brought him, explaining the nature of the work her father would be called upon to do.  It would be easy work, though real work, just what would be within his powers.  There would be difficulties, some arising from the relationship of the Massachusetts bar to that of Michigan, and others on which he touched more lightly; but he thought they could all be overcome.  Even if that proved to be impossible, there were other things he knew of that Mr. Guion could do—­things quite in keeping with his dignity.

“I’ve already talked to papa about it,” she said.  “He’s very grateful—­very much touched.”

“There’s no reason for that.  I should like his company.  I’m—­I’m fond of him.”

For a few minutes she seemed to be pondering, absently.  “There’s something I should like to ask you,” she said, at last.

“Yes, Miss Guion?  What is it?”

“When people have done so much harm as—­as we’ve done, do you think it’s right that they should get off scot-free—­without punishment?”

“I don’t know anything about that, Miss Guion.  It seems to me I’m not called upon to know.  Where we see things going crooked we must butt in and help to straighten them.  Even when we’ve done that to the best of our powers, I guess there’ll still be punishment enough to go round.  Outside the law-courts, that’s something we don’t have to look after.”

Again she sat silent, watching the shifting splendor of the sunset.  He could see her profile set against the deep-red glow like an intaglio on sard.

“I wonder,” she said, “if you have any idea of the many things you’ve taught me?”

“I?” He almost jumped from his seat.  “You’re laughing at me.”

“You’ve taught me,” she went on, quietly, “how hard and narrow my character has been.  You’ve taught me how foolish a thing pride can be, and how unlovely we can make even that noble thing we call a spirit of independence.  You’ve taught me how big human nature is—­how vast and deep and—­and good.  I don’t think I believed in it before.  I know I didn’t.  I thought it was the right thing, the clever thing, to distrust it, to discredit it.  I did that.  It was because, until I knew you—­that is, until I knew you as you are—­I had no conception of it—­not any more than a peasant who’s always starved on barren, inland hills has a conception of the sea.”

He was uncomfortable.  He was afraid.  If she continued to speak like that he might say something difficult to withdraw.  He fell back awkwardly on the subject of her father and the job at Stoughton.

“And you won’t have to worry about him, Miss Guion, when you’re over there in England,” he said, earnestly, as he summed up the advantages he had to offer, “because if he’s ill, I’ll look after him, and if he’s very ill, I’ll cable.  I promise you I will—­on my solemn word.”

“You won’t have to do that,” she said, simply, “because I’m going, too.”