She shook her head and looked up at him with a child's perplexity.
"A play?" he amended.
"I've no one to play with," she answered simply. "See!" And she held
out her empty arms.
"What's wrong then?"
"I don't know." She seemed to dwell on the last word. "I only
thought--perhaps you could tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"Help me to find it perhaps. It seemed as if you were looking, too;
that's why I came."
"Looking?" he repeated. "I'm waiting; that's all."
"Me too. But it's such a long time, and I get no nearer."
"Nearer to what?"
"Finding."
"Something you lost?"
"I think so. Must be. I'll go back now."
He put out a hand to stop her. "Listen," he said. "It'll be hours
before I shall know. I'm frightened to spend them alone. Be a friend,
little lady, and bear me company. 'Tisn't fair to ask, but if you could
stay a little."
"I'll stay," she said.
"And will you talk to me?"
"Yes."
"Tell me a story then--just as if I were a kid, a child. A man isn't
much more these times."
At the word "child" her arms went out to him, but dropped to her sides
again as he said "a man.
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