"Then Alan was an ass. What business had he to go frightening you, I should like to know, with a lot of fiction that is just trumped up to sell the papers?"
"But, Chris, I want you to understand how sorry I am that I was so vile to you. I really was vile, wasn't I?" Elisabeth was the type of woman for whom the confessional will always have its fascinations.
"You were distinctly down on me, I must confess; but you needn't worry about that now."
"And you quite forgive me?"
"As I said before, I've nothing to forgive. You were perfectly right to be annoyed with a man who appeared to be so careless and inconsiderate; but I'm glad you've found out that I wasn't quite as selfish as you thought."
Elisabeth stroked his coat sleeve affectionately. "You are not selfish at all, Chris; you're simply the nicest, thoughtfullest, most unselfish person in the world; and I'm utterly wretched because I was so unkind to you."
"Don't be wretched, there's a dear! Your wretchedness is the one thing I can't and won't stand; so please leave off at once."
To Christopher remorse for wrong done would always be an agony; he had yet to learn that to some temperaments, whereof Elisabeth's was one, it partook of the nature of a luxury—the sort of luxury which tempts one to pay half a guinea to be allowed to swell up one's eyes and redden one's nose over imaginary woes in a London theatre.
"Did you mind very much when I was so cross?" Elisabeth asked thoughtfully.
Christopher was torn between a loyal wish to do homage to his idol and a laudable desire to save that idol pain. "Of course I minded pretty considerably; but why bother about that now?"