Pidge stared at him like a child being whipped for the first time. All that was left of the meaning of the book in her own body and mind, and all hope concerning it, had suddenly been put to death. But the rest of her remained alive in a stupor of suffering; her eyes stared. She saw Richard Cobden as never before, saw him as a workman; as they saw him in the office. This was a bit of week-day that he was showing now, sincerely speaking to Miss Claes, having at length done the best he could in regard to the task which she had imposed. “The thing is _young_, Miss Claes,” he went on. “There is fling and fire to it, but its freedom is the freedom of ignorance. This love and this sort of man-stuff would only do for the great unsophisticated. I’m not saying that some publisher couldn’t take hold of it and make a go. In fact, I’ve seen stuff like it in covers mount up to big sales, but the human male isn’t handled in it, Miss Claes. This is sort of a young girl’s dream of what men are. They drink and fight and love and die and all that, but----” “There, there, Mr. Cobden. Don’t try so hard,” Miss Claes said laughingly. “I’m sure you’ve given the book its chance.” But Dicky meant to finish his report. “That’s just the point,” he said; “its chance with _The Public Square_ is all I’m talking about. This is a shopgirl’s book, and there are myriads of shopgirls. _The Public Square_ would like to have their patronage; yet one pays a price for that. John Higgins--this is the best thing that can be said about one of the best men I’ve known--John Higgins has never yet consented to pay that price.” Pidge Musser found her head turning from side to side as one who tries to find in which neck muscle a troubling lameness lies. She stopped that. She glanced up at Cobden, who was pressing on his left glove with his bare right hand. Before she turned, she realized that Miss Claes’ eyes were waiting for hers. It wasn’t pity she saw in them, nor friendship, nor loyalty, nor laughter; it was something of each of these, yet something more. Only one word in English even suggests the thing that was pouring upon her through Miss Claes’ eyes--and that word is _compassion_. Its power could not find her heart with its healing, but it seemed to gather around like a cloak, waiting for entrance. Pidge wanted to be alone with Miss Claes now. The ache was so deep that she felt it would be worth a life if she could go into Miss Claes’ arms and break. That was it, an utter break was the only thing that could ease this pain. Then she became aware of Cobden standing at her side. In a moment he would speak. She did not wait for the moment, but arose. “Shall we start down toward the ferry?” she asked. “Yes, all ready, Pidge.” In the silence that followed, Dicky did not seem to notice anything wrong. At the door Miss Claes’ hand raised and hovered above Pidge’s shoulder, but did not touch. Pidge was grateful for that. VIII SOMEBODY’S SHOULDER