“Yes, of course,” agreed Barton.  He could see that.

“So if you could rent me your attic—­” she resumed almost blithely.

“But my dear child,” interrupted Barton, “what possible—­”

“Why—­I’d have a place then to send things to,” argued little Eve Edgarton.

“But you’re off on the high seas Saturday, you say,” laughed Barton.

“Yes, I know,” explained little Eve Edgarton just a bit impatiently.  “But the high seas are so dull, Mr. Barton.  And then we sail so long!” she complained.  “And so far!—­via this, via that, via every other stupid old port in the world!  Why, it will be months and months before we ever reach Melbourne!  And of course on every steamer,” she began to monotone, “of course on every steamer there’ll be some one with a mixed-up collection of shells or coins—­and that will take all my mornings.  And of course on every steamer there’ll be somebody struggling with the Chinese alphabet or the Burmese accents—­and that will take all my afternoons.  But in the evenings when people are just having fun,” she kindled again, “and nobody wants me for anything, why, then you see I could steal ’way up in the bow—­where you’re not allowed to go—­and think about my beautiful attic.  It’s pretty lonesome,” she whispered, “all snuggled up there alone with the night, and the spray and the sailors’ shouts, if you haven’t got anything at all to think about except just ’What’s ahead?—­What’s ahead?—­What’s ahead?’ And even that belongs to God,” she sighed a bit ruefully.

With a quick jerk she edged herself even closer to Barton and sat staring up at him with her tousled head cocked on one side like an eager terrier.

“So if you just—­could, Mr. Barton!” she began all over again.  “And oh, I know it couldn’t be any real bother to you!” she hastened to reassure him.  “Because after Saturday, you know, I’ll probably never—­never be in America again!”

“Then what satisfaction,” laughed Barton, “could you possibly get in filling up an attic with things that you will never see again?”

“What satisfaction?” repeated little Eve Edgarton perplexedly.  “What satisfaction?” Between her placid brows a very black frown deepened.  “Why, just the satisfaction,” she said, “of knowing before you die, that you had definitely diverted to your own personality that much specific treasure out of the—­out of the—­world’s chaotic maelstrom of generalities.”

“Eh?” said Barton.  “What?  For Heaven’s sake say it again!”

“Why—­just the satisfaction—­” began Eve Edgarton.  Then abruptly the sullen lines grayed down again around her mouth.

“It seems funny to me, Mr. Barton,” she almost whined, “that anybody as big as you are—­shouldn’t be able to understand anybody as little as—­I am.  But if I only had an attic!” she cried out with apparent irrelevance.  “Oh, if just once in my whole life I could have even so much as an atticful of home!  Oh, please—­please—­please, Mr. Barton!” she pleaded.  “Oh, please!”