"No. That is;—oh yes, I like him, of course. My head aches and I'll go to bed."
"Wait a few minutes, Clary. Something has disturbed you. Has it not?"
"Everything disturbs me."
"But if there is anything special, won't you tell me?" There had been something very special, which Clarissa certainly would not tell. "What has he said to you? I don't think he would be simply cross to you."
"He has not been cross at all."
"What is it then? Well;—if you won't tell me, I think that you are afraid of me. We never yet have been afraid of each other." Then there was a pause. "Clary, has he said that,—he loves you?" There was another pause. Clarissa thought it all over, and for a moment was not quite certain whether any such sweet assurance had or had not been given to her. Then she remembered his words;—"You know how dearly I love you." But ought they to be sweet to her now? Had he not so offended her that there could never be forgiveness? And if no forgiveness, how then could his love be sweet to her? Patience waited, and then repeated her question. "Tell me, Clary; what has he said to you?"
"I don't know."
"Do you love him, Clary?"
"No. I hate him."
"Hate him, Clary? You did not use to hate him. You did not hate him yesterday? You would not hate him without a cause. My darling, tell me what it means! If you and I do not trust each other what will the world be to us? There is no one else to whom we can tell our troubles." Nevertheless Clarissa would not tell this trouble. "Why do you say that you hate him?"