“Oh, Oscar, you’re so strong,” she giggled, and it sent a cold shudder through Emma’s being.
Then presently, “What’s the matter, Oscar—why, you’re crying.”
“I’m not—well, then yes, I am—what of it?—you’ll understand, too, some day.”
She was evidently frightened, because she said in a somewhat loosened key, “No one would ever believe that we were as much in love as we are, would they, Oscar?”
“No, why do you ask that?”
“It’s a great pity,” she said again with the false sound, and sighed.
“Do you care? Why do you care?”
Straussmann was coming back with the yellow flower between thumb and forefinger. Emma ran a little way to meet him.
“Come, let us go home the other way.”
“Rather, let us not go home,” he said, boldly, and took her wrist, hurting her.