"She ought to be at home,
feeding her father's chickens. She is hopelessly out of place here, just
as she was in New York,"
"I wish we could send her back there," Vine declared.
Stella looked at him with raised eyebrows.
"My dear Norris," she said, "isn't this rather a new departure for you?
I don't seem to recognize you in this frame of mind."
He sipped his wine thoughtfully for a minute or two, and helped himself
to some curry.
"I believe after all, Stella," he said, "that you know very little about
me. I am naturally a most tender-hearted person."
"You have managed," she remarked drily, "to conceal your weakness most
effectively."
"A journalist," he reminded her, "is used to conceal them. Without the
arts of lying and acting, we might as well abandon our profession.
Seriously, Stella, I am sorry for the child. I wish you could find her
and pack her off home."
Stella shrugged her shoulders.
"In the first place," she said, "I have no idea where to look; and in
the second, she is one of those obstinate children who never do what
they are told, or see reason."
"I admit," he replied, "that finding her is rather a difficulty, but
after all, you see, it is you directly, and I indirectly, who are
responsible for her troubles.
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