Bertie was looking at her strangely. He would think her a coward, a goose. And so she was, but she could not help herself.
'Go away!' she said, in a stifled voice.
'Go away, Trixy!'
'No; don't. I—I am a fool. Tell me——'
And here, to her own consternation and wrath, she broke down completely, and began to sob and cry like a child.
Bertie went closer to her. His heart, too, was curiously soft. To see this wild, glorious, high-spirited little creature, whose courage and audacity he had so often admired, sobbing with childish abandonment, was almost more than he could bear. 'You are generally so brave,' he said, in a choked voice. 'Why——'
'Oh; don't ask me!' she sobbed. 'Everything has been so strange; and I was thinking of the old days. What fun we used to have. And—and—Bertie, you will take care of yourself?'
'Darling, I will try.'
The endearing word had sprung from him unwittingly; but, having escaped, it could not stand alone. He paused for a few moments to collect himself, and then went on gravely, 'You will say that this is no time to speak of ourselves. I think so too; and yet, for one moment, just for one moment—Trixy, give me that little hand; let me hold it while I tell you what you are to me, you bright, beautiful, brave little creature!'
'Hush, Bertie! hush!' she interrupted brokenly. 'You mustn't; you don't know me in the least. It is you who—but I shall make you conceited if I say any more. And,' with a rainbow-like smile, 'we always tabooed tu-quoques in our nursery. Come back safely, and we shall see.'