“Well,” he said, smiling faintly again after a time. “You are naughty to give us such rough times—is it for the pleasure of making up, bad little Schnucke—aren’t you?”
She kept close to him, and he did not see the wince and quiver of her lips.
“I wish I was strong again—couldn’t we go boating—or ride on horseback—and you’d have to behave then. Do you think I shall be strong in a month? Stronger than you?”
“I hope so,” she said.
“Why, I don’t believe you do, I believe you like me like this—so that you can lay me down and smooth me—don’t you, quiet girl?”
“When you’re good.”
“Ah, well, in a month I shall be strong, and we’ll be married and go to Switzerland—do you hear, Schnucke—you won’t be able to be naughty any more then. Oh—do you want to go away from me again?”
“No—only my arm is dead,” she drew it from beneath him, standing up, swinging it, smiling because it hurt her.
“Oh, my darling—what a shame! oh, I am a brute, a kiddish brute. I wish I was strong again, Lettie, and didn’t do these things.”
“You boy—it’s nothing.” She smiled at him again.