above the shop, Pete? No, you were too little."

"Of course, I remember," the boy replied. "The ankle's fine now,
Bella. Let up. I can't stand that rubbing. Let me stick the foot up
on another chair. There--that's great. It doesn't hurt near so bad
now. I remember Hugh's bookshop; yes, I do--honest! I remember sitting
on the ladder and listening to him talk to the students when they
came in. He always was a gorgeous talker, Bella. They used to stand
around and listen to his yarns like kids to a fairy story. Just the
same as you and I do now--when we can get him into a good humor. But,
you know, he used to like strangers best--to talk to, I mean."

Bella assented, bitterly. She had begun to clear the table of its
almost untouched meal. "Because he could put it over better with a
stranger. It isn't the _truth_ Hugh likes--about himself, or others."

Pete had begun to whittle a piece of wood. He was a charming figure,
slouching down in his chair, slim and graceful, his shapely golden
head ruffled, his chin pressed against his chest. His expression was
indescribably sweet and boyish, the shadow of anxiety and pain
accentuating a wistful if determined cheerfulness. He was deliberately
entertaining Bella, diverting her mind from its agony of apprehension.
She saw through him, but like a sick child she took the entertainment
languidly.

"Now, _you're_ too dead bent on the truth, Bella. You know you are.
You're a regular bear for the truth."

"I can't see anything else," she said gloomily. "Things are just so
to me--no blinking them."