so she had--at times; then there had been other times when he had no
beard at all--but just such a chin.

"I am sorry to be disappointing," the stranger replied--with his
voice. With his eyes--it became clear even in that early moment that
his eyes were insurgents--he said: "I don't take any stock in that
long white beard!" Then, as if fearing his eyes had overstepped:
"Perhaps you have visions of the future. A long white beard is a gift
the years may bring me."

"You can just ask him anything you want to, Aunt Kate," Worth was
brightly assuring her. "I told him you wanted to know about the under
life--the under what it is of life. You needn't be 'fraid of him, Aunt
Kate; you know he's the man's so sorry for you. He knows all about
everything, and will tell you just everything he knows."

"Quite a sweeping commendation," Katie found herself murmuring
foolishly--and in the imaginary conversations she had talked so
brilliantly! But when one could not be brilliant one could always find
cover under dignity. "If you will get in the boat now, Worth," she said,
"we will go home."

But Worth, serene in the consciousness of having accomplished his
mission, was sending Queen out after sticks and did not appear to
have heard.

And suddenly, perhaps because the hot day had come to mean so much more
than mere hot day, the feeling of being in a ridiculous position,
together with that bristling sense of the need of a protective dignity,
fell away. It became one of those rare moments when real things matter
more than things which supposedly should matter. She looked at him to
find him looking intently at her. He was not at all slipshod as
inspector. "Why are you sorry for me?" she asked. "What is there about
me to pity?"

He smiled as he surveyed her, considering it. Even people for whom
smiling was difficult must have smiled at the idea of pitying Katie
Jones--Katie, who looked so much as if the world existed that she might
have the world.

But he looked with a different premise and saw a deeper thing. The world
might exist for her enjoyment, but it eluded her understanding. And that
was beginning to encroach upon the enjoyment.

She seemed to follow, and her divination stirred a singular emotion,
possibly a more turbulent emotion than Katie Jones had ever known.

"It's all very well to pity me, but it's not a genuine pity--it's a
jeering one. If you're going to pity me, why don't you do it sincerely
instead of scoffingly