She thought he had not heard her, so she rapped again.
“Well! Who is there?” he inquired from within.
“It is I, your little Drusa, Alick,” she answered, in a low and tremulous tone.
“What do you want, Drusilla?”
“Oh, Alick dear, my heart is breaking; please don’t be mad with me,” she pleaded, in her most plaintive voice.
“I am not mad with you, child; why should you think so?”
“Oh, Alick, I thought—I thought you were displeased, because—because—” She could not go on.
“What reason could I have for being angry with you, child?” he asked again, putting his question in a form that he thought she could more easily answer.
“Why, my crying so much this evening,” she said.
“Oh, bosh! that is all over now. No, little Drusa, I have no cause, no just cause of complaint against you. If I am ever angry with you, it is from my own quick temper, and by no fault of yours, my child. Now go to bed like a good girl, or rather like a sweet little saint as you truly are. Good night, my little Drusa,” he said.