“Of course, if you won't tell me——” she said.
“I can only assure you there's nothing to tell.”
“I know what an ugly little house it is,” she said. “Maybe it was the furniture—or mama's vases that upset you. Or was it mama herself—or papa?”
“Nothing 'upset' me.”
At that she uttered a monosyllable of doubting laughter. “I wonder why you say that.”
“Because it's so.”
“No. It's because you're too kind, or too conscientious, or too embarrassed—anyhow too something—to tell me.” She leaned forward, elbows on knees and chin in hands, in the reflective attitude she knew how to make graceful. “I have a feeling that you're not going to tell me,” she said, slowly. “Yes—even that you're never going to tell me. I wonder—I wonder——”
“Yes? What do you wonder?”
“I was just thinking—I wonder if they haven't done it, after all.”
“I don't understand.”