“Oh, don’t look, don’t listen! I shall be all right in a minute.”
I moved away a little space and stood anxiously waiting. When I turned again her face was still buried in her arm, but the keenness of the outburst was subdued.
I approached and leaned over her tenderly, putting a kind hand on her shoulder.
“Now, little woman,” I said, “won’t you tell me what it is? I might comfort and counsel you at least, Dolly, dear.”
She answered so low that I had to stoop further to hear her.
“I only thought, perhaps—perhaps you might care more and not want me to.”
What a simple little sentence, yet how fierce a vision it sprung upon my blindness! I rose and stepped back almost with a cry. Then Dolly sat up and saw my face.
“Renny,” she cried, “I never meant to tell; only—only, I am so miserable.”
I went to her and took her hand and helped her to her feet.
“Dolly,” I said, in a low, hoarse voice, “I have been a selfish brute. I never thought what I was doing, when I should have thought. Now, you must give me time to think.”