It was very stupid of him to come, so Daisy thought, and rather selfish. She had given him so firm an answer, and if he reopened the question again she was determined to speak even more plainly. But he did nothing of the kind, and Daisy, quieting down a little from the tumult of her private thoughts, began to feel a little compassionate.
She knew now, in some kind of way, what was going on inside him. She realized the nature of that which brought him out here, to pretend to read a book. He wanted to be near her. And there was something of the pathetic faithfulness of a dog about him—a dog that is beaten and repulsed but never falters, or can falter, in devotion to his master. She had begun to know what that unreasoning devotion meant.
"I know the compact of the elm-tree is not to talk or expect answers," said Willie quietly. "Don't let me disturb you."
Daisy looked up at him swiftly.
"But if I said that you do disturb me?" she said.
"Then I should go away," he said.
"Oh, Willie, you don't," she said.
"Right. Tell me when I do."
And then poor Daisy began to have a headache. It got worse, and before long she rose.
"What a beastly day," she said.