"You can tell them," she said.

"Tell them what?" Dill said, as he turned down a side passage. "To bring their children, And they will. Because you're the boss." She gazed up at him, and saw, for an in­stant, his composure depart. But almost at once he was smiling again. "Why do you always smile?" she said. "Aren't things ever bad, or aren't you able to admit it when they're bad? On the television you always say things are fine. Why don't you tell the truth?" She asked these questions with curiosity; it did not make sense to her. Surely he knew that he never told the truth.

"You know what I think's wrong with you, young woman?" Dill said. "I don't really think you're such a troublemaker as you pretend." He opened the door to an office. "I think you just worry too much." As he ushered her inside he said, "You should be like other children. Play more healthy outdoor games. Don't do so much thinking off by yourself. Isn't that what you do? Go off by yourself somewhere and brood?"

She had to nod in agreement. It was true.

Dill patted her on the shoulder. "You and I are going to get along fine," he said. "You know, I have two children of my own-a goot bit older than you, though."

"I know," she said. "One's a boy and he's in the police youth, and your girl Joan is in the girls' army school in Boston. I read about it in a magazine they give us at school to read."

"Oh, yes," Dill murmured. "World Today. Do you like to read it?"

"No," she said. "It tells more lies even than you."

After that, the man said nothing; he concerned himself with papers on his desk, and left her to stand by herself.

"I'm sorry you don't like our magazine," he said finally, in a preoccupied voice. "Unity goes to a great deal of trouble to put it out. By the way. Who told you to say that about Unity? Who taught you?"