“My blessed child!” he cried, in great distress and perturbation, “What have I done? I—I——”
“Call me 'small' all you like!” she answered. “I don't care. It isn't that. You mustn't think me such an imbecile.” She dropped her hands from her face and shook the tears from her eyes with a mournful laugh. He saw that her hands were clenched tightly and her lip trembled. “I will not cry!” she said in a low voice.
“Somebody ought to murder me; I ought to have thought—personalities are hideous——”
“Don't! It wasn't that.”
“I ought to be shot——”
“Ah, please don't say that,” she said, shuddering; “please don't, not even as a joke—after last night.”
“But I ought to be for hurting you, indeed——”
She laughed sadly, again. “It wasn't that. I don't care what you call me. I am small. You'll try to forgive me for being such a baby? I didn't mean anything I said. I haven't acted so badly since I was a child.”
“It's my fault, all of it. I've tired you out. And I let you get into that crush at the circus—” he was going on, remorsefully.
“That!” she interrupted. “I don't think I would have missed the circus.” He had a thrilling hope that she meant the tent-pole; she looked as if she meant that, but he dared not let himself believe it.