He turned away abruptly.
"Very well!" he said. "I understand. I’ll go. Good-by!"
"No! Don’t! It’s not that. You’re not distasteful!" she cried. "Honestly, you’re not—not a bit! I think an awful lot of you. I think you’re—grand. I do, really; but I’m just not in love with you. I can’t help it. It isn’t that you’re not handsome, or anything like that."
She was moved by his wretched, pallid face. She wanted very much to reassure him as to his desirability and attractiveness. She wanted him to know of her admiration and her great good-will; but she knew no way of saying all this. She caught his hand and squeezed it; and when he turned, she looked up at him with those wonderful black eyes, troubled, filled with tears.
"But can’t we keep on being good friends?" she asked.
He forced himself to smile down at her in his old kindly way—or as nearly that as his drawn face would allow.
"I’ll try," he said. "Good day!"
II
Mrs. Kennedy wished to have all this explained to her.
"Who was it, Angie?" she asked.