"You don't understand." How Freckles came to understand was a problem.
"It's this," he persisted.

"If your father met me on the street, in my station and dress, with you on me arm, he'd have every right to be caning me before the people, and not a finger would I lift to stay him." The Angel's eyes snapped.

"If you think my father cares about my doing anything that is right and kind, and that makes me happy to do--why, then you completely failed in reading my father, and I'll ask him and just show you." She dropped Freckles' arm and turned toward the entrance to the building.

"Why, look there!" she exclaimed.
Her father stood in a big window fronting the street, a bundle of papers in his hand, interestedly watching the little scene, with eyes that comprehended quite as thoroughly as if he had heard every word.

The Angel caught his glance and made a despairing little gesture toward Freckles.