Part 41 (1/2)

”I'm afraid someone has been prejudicing you against me Mary. You have more technical information than seems likely to have reached you by accident.”

”It's not prejudice, but it is information; and Mr. Graham did tell me, if that's what you mean. But he cares. You know how hard the Settlement has worked to get the Company to make the streets safer for children--and you wouldn't do a thing.”

Mr. Cortlandt hesitated. It would never do to pile business details on his suit for a love once lost and not yet regained.

”You make it hard for me Mary,” he said. ”Hard because it is difficult to explain large business questions to a--to anyone not accustomed to them. I cannot swing the affairs of a great corporation for personal ends, even to please you.”

”That is not the point,” she said quickly.

He flushed, and hastily subst.i.tuted ”Even to suit the n.o.blest humanitarian feelings.”

”Why not?” said she.

”Because that is not what street cars are run for,” he pursued patiently. ”But why must we talk of this? It seems to put you so far away. And you have given me no answer.”

”I am sorry, but I am not ready yet.”

”Is it Hugh Graham?” he demanded. The hot color leaped to her face, but she met his eyes steadily. ”I am much interested in Mr. Graham,” she said, ”and in the n.o.ble work he is doing. I think I should really be happier with him than with you. We care for the same things, he calls out the best in me. But I have made no decision in his favor yet, nor in yours. Both of you have a certain appeal to my heart, both to my duty. With you the personal need, with him the hope of greater service.

But--you are the father of the child, and that gives you a great claim.

I have not decided.”

The man looked relieved, and again drew his chair a little closer. The sharp clangor of the cars rose between the,.

”You think I dragged in this car question,” she said. ”Really, I did it because it is that sort of thing which does most to keep us apart, and--I would like to remove it.”

He leaned forward, playing with her big fan. ”Let's remove it by all means!” he said.

She looked at his bent head, the dark hair growing somewhat thin on top, almost tenderly.

”If I could feel that you were truly on the right side, that you considered your work as social service, that you tried to run your cars to carry people--not to kill them!--If you could change your ground here I think--almost--” she stopped, smiling up at him, her fan in her lap, her firm delicate white hands eagerly clasped; then went on,

”Don't you care at all for the lives lost every day in this great city--under your cars?”

”It cannot be helped, my dear. Our men are as careful as men can be.

But these swarming children will play in the streets--”

”Where else can they play!” she interjected.

”And they get right in front of the cars. We are very sorry; we pay out thousands of dollars in damages: but it cannot be helped!”

She leaned back in her chair and her face grew cold.

”You speak as if you never heard of such things as fenders,” she said.

”We have fenders!--almost every car--”

”Fenders! Do you call that piece of rat-trap a fender! Henry Cortlandt! We were in Liverpool when this subject first came up between us! They have fenders there that _fend_ and no murder list!”

”Conditions are different there,” said he with an enforced quiet. ”Our pavement is different.”