“You have more right than I,” he replied, “they have been your friends since childhood.”

“I thought you had gone away,” she said.

“Why?” he demanded.  Had she been to church again?

“My father told me before he left that you were to take a cruise with him on the yacht he has chartered.”

“He wrote me from New York—­I was unable to go,” Hodder said slowly.

He felt her gaze upon him, but resolutely refused to meet it. . . .  They walked on in silence until they came to the more open spaces near the edge of the Park, thronged that Saturday evening by crowds which had sought the, city’s breathing space.  Perfect trees cast long, fantastic shadows across the lawns, fountains flung up rainbows from the midst of lakes; children of the tenements darted hither and thither, rolled and romped on the grass; family parties picnicked everywhere, and a very babel of tongues greeted the ear—­the languages of Europe from Sweden to Italy.

Suddenly an exclamation from her aroused and thrilled him.

“Isn’t it wonderful how happy they are, and with what simple pleasures they are satisfied!  I often come over here on Saturdays and Sundays, just to talk to them.”

“Talk to them!” he echoed stupidly.  “In their own languages?”

“Oh, I know a little German and Italian, though I can’t lay claim to Czech,” she answered gayly.  “Why are you so surprised that I should possess such modest accomplishments?”

“It’s not the accomplishments.”  He hesitated.

“No.  You are surprised that I should be interested in humanity.”  She stood facing him.  “Well, I am,” she said, half humorously, half defiantly.  “I believe I am more interested in human beings than in anything else in the world—­when they are natural, as these people are and when they will tell one their joys and their troubles and their opinions.”

“Enthusiasm, self-assertion, had as usual, transformed her, and he saw the colour glowing under her olive skin.  Was she accusing him of a lack of frankness?

“And why,” he asked, collecting himself, “did you think—­” he got no further.

“It’s because you have an idea that I’m a selfish Epicurean, if that isn’t tautology—­because I’m interested in a form of art, the rest of the world can go hang.  You have a prejudice against artists.  I wish I really were one, but I’m not.”

This speech contained so many surprises for him that he scarcely knew how to answer it.

“Give me a little time,” he begged, “and perhaps I’ll get over my prejudices.  The worst of them, at any rate.  You are helping me to do so.”  He tried to speak lightly, but his tone was more serious in the next sentence.  “It seems to me personally that you have proved your concern for your fellow-creatures.”

Her colour grew deeper, her manner changed.

“That gives me the opportunity to say something I have hoped to say, ever since I saw you.  I hoped I should see you again.”