"It's fun!" she cried, and stayed her gaiety at the remembrance of Morton's grave and courteous face. She found nobility in it, and she was sobered. "No, it isn't fun," she said--"it isn't fun. You must try to be an honest woman, Theresa. But I wish the morning would come." She checked another laugh as she slipped into bed. CHAPTER XXI To Basil Morton, haste was as foreign a quality as dignity was a native one. He lived slowly, marshalled his actions into order and subdued his thoughts into a fair sequence, worthy of the noble mind of man. Even in his imaginations of a future wooing, he had pictured it as a smooth and rhythmic progress, for, seeing his lady fair and holy, fit to be adored, the celebration of his worship must be beautiful and stately; she must be won to the delicately pacing music of his heart. That lady of his fancy had been tall and dark, gracious and reserved, with no ink stain on her middle finger, and no happy comradeship with men. She must be above them, loftily enthroned, white-fingered, perfect; yet here he was ensnared by this Theresa with her red hair and her quickness and her fearless glances of eyes that were rarely veiled. He was ensnared when he first looked into those eyes, heard her voice, and watched her nimble gestures; and, as though to lie held in her toils were not enough, she had magically animated him with her own quickness. The courtship he had planned for the dark, imagined lady faded and left a fragrance of old things, while his heart leapt with a strangeness of hurry and his brain was hot with his impatience. Yet he liked to remember his first sight of her, for she had been gazing into the fire, as maidens should, and for that instant she had looked soft and vulnerable and young, needing the protection he had to give. He longed to give it. Thought of the lives of unprotected women could always give his social conscience its sharpest pang, and as he saw Theresa turn her latch-key in the lock, that pang had changed to bitter pain. How often did she walk home late at night alone? Into what dreadful slums and dens of wickedness was she forced by his uncle's folly? What right had he to employ her for these purposes? What horrid sights had she seen, what language heard? She should not suffer that degradation of eyes and ears. He hated the hours she spent with Neville. She must be taken from such work; she should live, he vowed, a life more fitted for a woman, and he resolved to win her to it. Wondering greatly at the headlong manner in which he had fallen at her feet, he forced himself to sleep, anxious to bring the day and meet his lady on her way to work. It was a foggy morning, and she came towards him through a grey mist which had bedewed her clothes and hair. Her cheeks were a pale pink, her eyes were very bright, and at the sight of her he felt as though he had been bathing in some rare air where prejudices could be blown away, and youth regained and strengthened.