She needed a friend, that was plain enough, some one who had her best
interests honestly at heart; some one who knew the pitfalls and the
difficulties of this pilgrimage she'd so strangely set out on, and could
advise her how to avoid them. That he was, potentially, that friend, he
truly believed. And what better way could there be of convincing her of
it than by persuading her to trust him, and then proving that her trust
had not been misplaced?
But what was one to do--how was one to make a beginning when she trusted
him without any persuasion? Trusted him as a matter of course, without
the glimmer of any sort of emotion whatever; about as if he'd
been--well, say, her brother-in-law!
He was at a loss for a peg to hang his definite sense of injury upon. He
couldn't blame the girl for having trusted him, nor for proving so
perfectly adequate to the unconventional situation he'd created. He
couldn't reproach her, even in his thoughts, for the frankly expressed
pleasure she took in the leisured dignity of the little restaurant, with
its modestly sumptuous appointments (she even let him see that she
appreciated the fineness of the napery and the handsomeness of the
tableware; admitted, indeed, how sharply it contrasted with what she'd
been used to lately), nor for the real appreciation she showed of the
supper he selected.
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