No coquetting miss, contriving to meet the lad of her fancy, could have
planned things to more of a nicety; Robin, her arms full of her absurd
purchases, came out of the store just as Dale and Adam Kraus walked
along. It was not so much the unusualness of the girl's being there--and
alone, that brought Dale to a quick stop; it was the imploring look in
her wide and serious eyes.
"Where's Beryl--or that chauffeur?" He took her packages from her.
"I want to talk to you. I _have_ to. Will you walk just a little way
home with me?"
"Why, what's up? Of course I will. Come, let's cut through here." For
Dale realized that many curious eyes were staring at them, and not too
kindly. Someone laughed. He would be accused of "truckling" to a
Forsyth, which, just then, was likely to bring contempt upon him.
Neither he nor Robin saw the incongruous picture they made; she in her
warm suit of softest duvetyn and rich with fur, he in his working
clothes, swinging a dinner pail in one hand and in the other balancing
her knobby packages. All she thought of was that this was Dale, the
Prince who had once befriended her, whose make-believe presence had
often gladdened her lonely childhood hours, and who was in danger now;
and he looked down into the little face under its fringe of flame-red
hair and wondered what in the world made it so tragic and why it
strangely haunted him as belonging to some far-off picture in the past.
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