"I don't know," I sobbed. "But I'm not an angel. I do believe I'm a very—wicked girl."
"You, wicked? Why?"
"Because—I've got feelings I oughtn't to have."
"And that's why you're crying?"
"I'm not sure. But I just—can't help it."
"I wish I could do something," said he, quite miserably; and I could smell the wet serge of his sopping coat, though I couldn't see him, for my hands were over my eyes. I was ashamed of myself, but not as much ashamed as I would have been with any one else, because of the feeling I have that Mr. Starr would be so wonderfully nice and sympathetic to confide in. Not that I have anything to confide.
"Thank you, but you couldn't. Nobody could," I moaned.
"Not even Miss Van Buren?"
"Not now. It's too sad. Something seems to have come between us; I don't know what."
"Maybe that's making you cry?"