The door of the bureau opened and the manager's wife came out. She had a slight flush on her face and her mouth was tighter than ever. Mrs. Tailleur saw her coming and slipped the child from her lap. The manager's wife put out her hand to take him, but he turned from her and clung to the pretty lady. The woman seized him by the arm and tore him from her, and dragged him toward the apartments of the management. The child screamed as he went. "Women like that," said Lucy, "shouldn't be allowed to have children." Mrs. Tailleur turned to him though she had not heard him. "What have I done? What harm could I do the little thing?" "What have you done?" It was hard for him to follow the workings of her mind. "You don't mean to say you minded that?" "Yes, I minded. I minded awfully." "That dreadful woman?" "Do you think she really was dreadful?" "Quite terrible." "I don't know. I suppose," she said, "they're all like that. Yet they can't all be dreadful." Lucy laughed. He couldn't see her point. "I don't understand who 'they' are." "The women who are--the women who've got children." She stooped down and picked up something from the floor. It was the little man out of the cart that the child had been playing with, that lay there, smashed, at her feet. The manager's wife had stepped on it. Kitty set the little man upon the seat and smiled at him sadly. And Lucy smiled at her out of a great and sudden tenderness. He thought he saw it now. "I think," said he, "you must allow for a little maternal jealousy." "Jealousy? I can understand jealousy." "So can I," said Lucy. "And you think that was jealousy?" "Well, you know, that little boy was making barefaced love to you." She laughed. "I suppose," she said, "you _would_ feel like that about it." She got up and they went out, past the hotel front and down the lawn, in sight of the veranda, where at this hour everybody was there to see them. Lucy meant everybody to see. He had chosen that place, and that hour, also, which wore, appropriately, the innocence of morning. He knew her pitiful belief that he was defying public opinion in being seen with her; but from her ultimate consent, from her continuous trust in him, and from the heartrending way she clung to him, he gathered that she knew him, she knew that defiance, from him, would be a vindication of her. He did not yet know how dear she had become to him. Only, as he looked at her moving close beside him, so beautiful and so defenceless, he thanked God that he had kept his manhood clean, so that nothing that he did for her could hurt her. And so, holding himself very upright, and with his head in the air, he went slowly past the veranda and the Hankins, and, turning to Mrs. Tailleur, gave them the full spectacle of his gladness and his pride in her. "How good you are to me," she said. "I know why you did that." "Do you?" He smiled, guarding his secret, holding it back a little while longer. "Where are we going to?"