IN THE GALLERY OF OLD IRON
"I don't see that," said the proposed Luther, and his eyes went back to the Moses. She was about to speak and changed her mind.
Contemplative pause.
"And then, when a great number of people have heard of your views?" she said presently.
"Then I suppose we must form a party and. . . bring things about."
Another pause—full, no doubt, of elevated thoughts.
"I say," said Lewisham quite suddenly. "You do put—well—courage into a chap. I shouldn't have done that Socialism paper if it hadn't been for you." He turned round and stood leaning with his back to the Moses, and smiling at her. "You do help a fellow," he said.
That was one of the vivid moments of Miss Heydinger's life. She changed colour a little. "Do I?" she said, standing straight and awkward and looking into his face. "I'm. . . glad."
"I haven't thanked you for your letters," said Lewisham. "And I've been thinking. . ."
"Yes?"
"We're first-rate friends, aren't we? The best of friends."
She held out her hand and drew a breath. "Yes," she said as they gripped. He hesitated whether to hold her hand. He looked into her eyes, and at that moment she would have given three quarters of the years she had still to live, to have had eyes and features that could have expressed her. Instead, she felt her face hard, the little muscles of her mouth
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