"
"So am I, awfully--folks! And pretty lonely folks at that.
Something like that pup that has adopted me, only worse. He's got
me, but I haven't anybody."
"You'll not be lonely long." She glanced up at him.
"That's cheering. Why?"
"Well, you are the sort that makes friends," she said, rather
vaguely. "That crowd that drops into the shop on the evenings
you're there--they're crazy about you. They like to hear you talk."
"Great Scott! I suppose I've been orating all over the place!"
"No, but you've got ideas. You give them something to think about
when they go home. I wish I had a mind like yours."
He was so astonished that he stopped dead on the pavement. "My
Scottish blood," he said despondently. "A Scot is always a reformer
and a preacher, in his heart. I used to orate to my mother, but she
liked it. She is a Scot, too. Besides, it put her to sleep. But
I thought I'd outgrown it."
"You don't make speeches. I didn't mean that."
But he was very crestfallen during the remainder of the way, and
rather silent. He wondered, that night before he went to bed, if he
had been didactic to Lily Cardew. He had aired his opinions to her
at length, he knew.
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