"Are you sure He knows?" The voice was painfully intense.
"Listen to me, Gwen," began The Pilot, in great distress, but she cut him short.
"Are you quite sure He knows? Answer me!" she cried, with her old imperiousness.
"Yes, Gwen, He knows all about you."
"Then what do you think of Him, just because He's big and strong, treating a little girl that way?" Then she added, viciously: "I hate Him! I don't care! I hate Him!"
But The Pilot did not wince. I wondered how he would solve that problem that was puzzling, not only Gwen, but her father and The Duke, and all of us—the why of human pain.
"Gwen," said The Pilot, as if changing the subject, "did it hurt to put on the plaster jacket?"
"You just bet!" said Gwen, lapsing in her English, as The Duke was not present; "it was worse than anything—awful! They had to straighten me out, you know," and she shuddered at the memory of that pain.
"What a pity your father or The Duke was not here!" said The Pilot, earnestly.
"Why, they were both here!"
