She rose, half reluctantly, lingering at the window, "I don't know what mother will say!" She ended her hesitation with "And I don't care!" She turned to him, rigid. "I'll have to take the responsibility of my own life some day. I might as well begin now."
He saw the fear against which she was fighting. "Don't be afraid," he said pityingly. "I'll help."
"Yes." She glanced back at the window that gave a glimpse of the street, a glimpse of that city of strangers in which their struggle would be so unbefriended, their poverty so forlorn. "It—it frightens one a little, doesn't it?"
He answered, in the same voice, with a faltering smile: "It's worse when you wake up at night."
They looked at each other, standing in a silence that gave ear to the muffled tumult of the street traffic, rumbling like the menace of a surf. She sighed again. "Well," she said, "I'll put on my things."
She left him. He drew himself up slowly and stood waiting, his eyes alight, his whole face alight, with an emotion of defiant hope and tenderness. Here was the battle; and he was ready for it. It was the world against him, for the prize of all his dreams. He settled his coat collar and drew a long breath.
When he heard her coming down the stairs, he stepped out into the hall and met her confidently. "If he's not there this afternoon," he said, "we'll be sure to find him in the morning."
But he was there—smoking an after-dinner cigar, with
