Cally was startled into looking at him, a thing she had been rather avoiding; and looking, she looked instantly away.  In Mr. V.V.’s eyes, that strange trusting look, which had not been frequently observable there of late, had saluted her like a banner of stars....

“Certainly I was not meant to be one of them,” said she, rather faintly.

He must have meant only a general expression of confidence, she was sure of that; only to be kind and comforting.  But to her, grappling with new hard problems, that strange gaze came like a torch lit in a cave at night.  Much she had wondered how Vivian could possibly hold her responsible for what her father did, or left undone.  And now in a flash it was all quite clear, and she saw that he had not been holding her responsible at all.  No, this simple and good man, who let the crows bring his raiment, or not, as they preferred, had only reposed a trust in her—­in Cally Heth.  It was as if, that day at the Settlement, he had said to her, by his eyes:  “I know you.  Once you go to the Works, you won’t rest till you’ve made things better....”

But instead of this making things better for Cally Heth now, it seemed to make them worse at once.  She became considerably agitated; knew that he must see her agitation, and did not mind at all.  And suddenly she sat down on the sway-backed sofa between the windows....

“I’m the last woman in the world ever to think of getting out of my groove,” said Cally, her cheek upon her hand.

And then, with no premeditation at all, there came strange words from her, words clothing with unlessoned ease thoughts that certainly she had never formulated for Hugo Canning.

“And yet I feel that it might have been different.  I’ve felt—­lately—­as if I haven’t had much of a chance....  I think I have a mind, or had one ... some—­some spirit and independence, too.  But I wasn’t trained to express myself that way; that was all ironed down flat in me.  I never had any education, except what was superficial—­showy.  I was never taught to think, or to do anything—­or to have any part in serious things.  No one ever told me that I ought to justify my existence, to pay my way.  Nobody ever thought of me as fit to have any share in anything useful or important—­fit for any responsibility....  No, life for me was to be like butterflies flying, and my part was only to make myself as ornamental as I could....”

V. Vivian, who wrote articles about the Huns in newspapers, stood at the Cooney mantel.  He did not move at all; the man’s gaze upon her half-averted face did not wink once.  His own face, this girl had thought, was one for strange expressions; but she might have thought the look it wore now stranger than any she had ever seen there....