There
are other ways of helping people than by wasting their time talking to
them."
"He wants you," said the child. "It's your being there that helps him."
Joan stopped and turned. "Did he send you?" she asked.
"No," the child answered. "Mama had a headache this morning, and I
slipped out. You're not keeping your promise."
Palace Yard, save for a statuesque policeman, was empty.
"How do you know that my being with him helps him?" asked Joan.
"You know things when you love anybody," explained the child. "You feel
them. You will come again, soon?"
Joan did not answer.
"You're frightened," the child continued in a passionate, low voice. "You
think that people will talk about you and look down upon you. You
oughtn't to think about yourself. You ought to think only about him and
his work. Nothing else matters."
"I am thinking about him and his work," Joan answered. Her hand sought
Hilda's and held it. "There are things you don't understand. Men and
women can't help each other in the way you think. They may try to, and
mean no harm in the beginning, but the harm comes, and then not only the
woman but the man also suffers, and his work is spoilt and his life
ruined.
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