He looked down at himself guiltily. "I suppose I do need a new pair of shoes."
"Yes, and a new hat, and a new overcoat, and a new suit of clothes, and a new necktie and a pair of gloves."
"I can get the hat anyway," he said; and he said it with such a disproportionate accent of hopefulness that she had to laugh at him.
"You are certainly an optimist!"
But when he wished her to take her midday meal with him at his French café, she said: "No. I'd feel as if I were eating your new hat. You call for me again at half-past two." And she escaped into her boarding-house while he was still laughing at her little joke.
He thought that he had never been happier. It was so calm and so assured a happiness, derived from such heart-easing friendliness, such practical and smiling friendliness, and so dear. If it were to continue all his life long, it would be enough.
She was even more practical in the afternoon. On their way to the Park, she made him tell her about his quarrel with Conroy, about his father and his mother, about his play-writing and his future plans. And when he led her to the bench on which Miss Morris and he had sat, beside the water—explaining, "The last time I sat here I didn't think I'd ever" she interrupted him to ask: "What shall I tell mother?"
He did not know. He suggested that she tell as little as possible. "Just write that there's a prospect of doing better with your music here than at home. Something may turn up any day now. And it's just
