His realization of this silent struggle--the whole weight of her selfish family on her frail shoulders--made Odd afraid of his own indignation. The remembrance of Mrs. Archinard's whines, the Captain's taunts, yes, and worst of all, Katherine's gowns and gayety, almost overcame him. He took her hand in his and held it as they rolled along through the wetly shining streets. His continued silence rather alarmed Hilda. The relief of full confidence was so great that she could not bear it impaired by any misinterpretation. "You do understand," she said; "you do think I am right? My success seems unmerited to you, perhaps? But I try to give my best. I seem very selfish and unkind to mamma, I know, but I really am kind--don't you think so?--in keeping the truth from her and letting her misjudge me. I know you have thought of me that I was one of those selfish idiots who neglect their real duties for their art; but I can do more for mamma outside our home. And I read to her in the evening. Oh, how conceited, egotistic, all that sounds! But I do want you to believe that I try to do what seems best and wisest." "Hilda! Hilda!" he put her hand to his lips and kissed the worn glove. "You simply astound me," he said, after a moment; "your little life facing this great Paris." "Oh, I am very careful, very wise," Hilda said quickly. "Careful? You mean that if you were not you might encounter unpleasantnesses?" She looked at him with a look of knowledge that went strangely with her delicate face. "Of course one must be careful. I am young--and pretty. I have learned that." "My child, what other things have you learned?" And Odd's hold tightened on her hand. "That terrifying things might happen if one were not brave. Don't exaggerate, please. I really have found so few lions in my path, and a girl of dignity cannot be really annoyed beyond a certain point. Lions are very much magnified in popular and conventional estimation. A girl can, practically, do anything she likes here in Paris if she is quiet and self-reliant." Odd stared at her. "Of course I have always been a coward, after a fashion; I was frightened at first," said Hilda. He understood now the look of moral courage that had haunted him; natural timidity steeled to endurance. "The greatest trouble with me is that I am too noticeable, too pretty." She spoke of her beauty in a tone of matter-of-fact experience; "it is a pity for a working woman." "My child," Odd repeated. He felt dazed. "Please don't exaggerate," Hilda reiterated. "Exaggerate? Tell me about these lions. How have you vanquished them?" "I have merely walked past them." His evident dismay gave her a merry little moment of superior wisdom. "They frightened me and that was all. One was the husband of a person I taught. He used to lie in wait for me in the dining-room." Hilda gave Odd a rather meditative glance. "You won't be angry? Angry with _me_ for keeping on in my path of independence?"