But I was pretty grimy.

I--I didn't know," and Barry grinned cheerfully, "I was going to be this lucky." She pretended not to hear the sally.

And in some way Barry was glad.
He much rather would have her silent than making some flippant remark, much rather would he prefer to lean comfortably back on the old bench and watch the quiet, almost childish determination of her features as she sought for a grip on the tiny protuberances of the thorns, the soft brownness of the few strands of hair which strayed from beneath the boyish cap, the healthy glow of her complexion, the smallness of the clear-skinned hands, the daintiness of the trim little figure.

Much rather would he be silent with the picture than striving for answers to questions that in their very naiveness were an accusation.

Quite suddenly Barry felt cheap and mean and dishonest.