But nothing was humorous to Jerry’s mood just then.

“I can’t have you talking like that, Una,” he said in a suppressed tone.  “It’s very painful to me.  I can’t imagine why anyone should try to injure you.  They couldn’t, you know.  You’re above all that sort of thing.  It’s too trivial—­”

“Oh, is it?  You’ll see.  All New York will have the story in twenty-four hours.  Pretty sort of a tale to get to the Mission!  The Mission!  If those people heard!  Imagine the embroideries!  I could never lift my head down there again.”

“Let the world go hang.  Have you anything to be ashamed of, Una?”

“No.”

“Nor I. Very well.”

The seriousness that Una attached to the affair, while it bewildered, also inflamed him.  “I wish it had been a man who had talked to you the way Marcia did.”

Una turned toward him soberly.

“What would you do to him, Jerry?”

He smiled grimly.  “I think I’d kill him,” he said softly.

I think Jerry’s tone must have comforted her, for he said that after that Una grew quieter.

“The world is very intolerant of idyls, Jerry.”

They had reached a road which overlooked the river.  Long, cool shadows brushed their faces as they rushed on from orchard to meadow, all redolent of sweet odors.

“Why?”

“Because they’re a reproach.”

“Friendship is no idyl, Una, with us.  It’s more like reality, isn’t it?”

“I hope so.”

“Don’t you believe it?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

He smiled at her gayly.

“I’m sure of it.  I’m always myself with you, Una.  I seem to want you to know all the things I’m thinking about.  That’s the surest indication, isn’t it?  And I want to know what you’re thinking about.  I feel as though I’d given you too many additional burdens down town, that you may tire this summer.”

“Oh, you needn’t worry.  I’m quite strong.”

“I want you to lay out some definite work that I can do, not merely giving money, but myself, my own strength and energy.”  He laughed.  “You know I’m really thinking of asking you to establish a mission for men only, with me as the first patient.  It does seem to straighten me out somehow, just being with you—­keeps me from thinking crooked.”

“Do you think crooked, Jerry?”

“Yes, often.  Things bother me.  Then I’m like a child.  You’ve no idea of the vast abyss of my ignorance.”

“But you mustn’t think crooked.  I won’t have it.”

“I can’t help it, sometimes.  People aren’t always what you expect ’em to be.  I ought to understand better by this time, but I don’t.”

“People aren’t like books, Jerry.  You’re sure of books.  But with people, you can turn the same page again and again and the printing is different every time.”

“People do change, don’t they?”