THE BETTER SORT
wasn't anyone's knowledge, at any rate, that made us uneasy."
"It was your own? I mean your own sense?"
"Well, call it that. We remembered, and we wondered what had happened. So," Mr. Hayes now frankly laughed, "we came to see."
Gedge stared through his film of tears. "Came from America to see me?"
"Oh, a part of the way. But we wouldn't in England, not have seen you."
"And now we have!" the young woman soothingly added.
Gedge still could only gape at the candour of the tribute. But he tried to meet them—it was what was least poor for him—in their own key. "Well, how do you like it?"
Mrs. Hayes, he thought—if their answer were important—laughed a little nervously. "Oh, you see."
Once more he looked from one to the other. "It's too beastly easy, you know."
Her husband raised his eyebrows. "You conceal your art. The emotion—yes; that must be easy; the general tone must flow. But about your facts—you've so many: how do you get them through?"
Gedge wondered. "You think I get too many———?"
At this they were amused together. "That's just what we came to see!"
"Well, you know, I've felt my way; I've gone step by step; you wouldn't believe how I've tried it on. This—where you see me—is where I've come out." After which, as they said nothing: "You hadn't thought I could come out?"
Again they just waited, but the husband spoke: "Are you so awfully sure you are out?"
Gedge drew himself up in the manner of his moments of emotion, almost conscious even that, with his sloping shoulders, his long lean neck and his nose so prominent
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