She saw how quickly he had turned her remark and instantly she knew what this quality was that he gave off. He was sweet. Her thoughts went of on a side-track and then she broke the silence with an odd remark.
"Sweetness is hard," she said suddenly.
"What?"
"Nothing," she denied in confusion. "I didn't mean to speak aloud. I was thinking of something —of a conversation with a man named Freddy Kebble."
"Maury Kebble's brother?"
"Yes," she said rather surprised to think of him having known Maury Kebble. Still there was nothing strange about it. "Well, he and I were talking about sweetness a few weeks ago. Oh, I don't know—I said that a man named Howard—that a man I knew was sweet, and he didn't agree with me, and we began talking about what sweetness in a man was: He kept telling me I meant a sort of soppy softness, but I knew I didn't—yet I didn't know exactly how to put it. I see now. I meant just the opposite. I suppose real sweetness is a sort of hardness—and strength."
Keith nodded.
"I see what you mean. I've known old priests who had it."
"I'm talking about young men," she said rather defiantly.
They had reached the now deserted baseball dia-
