She flushed a little. "Because you don't choose to remember. But I am sorry I spoke all the same. I lost my temper, and I—I suppose I had no right to."
"Pray don't apologise," he said. "It made no difference, I assure you."
But this was not what Dot wanted. She descended to the ground and tried again. It was something at least to have broken the silence.
"Nap," she said, standing still with her hands nervously clasped behind her, "please don't think me—impertinent, or anything of that sort. But I can't help knowing that you are feeling pretty bad about it. And—and" she began to falter—"I know you are not a brute really. You didn't mean to do it."
A curious little smile came into Nap's face. "It's good of you to make excuses for me," he observed. "You happen to know me rather well, don't you?"
"I know you are in trouble," she answered rather piteously.
"And—I'm sorry."
"Thanks!" he said. "Do we part here?"
She thrust out her hand impulsively. "I thought we decided to be—friends," she said, a sharp quiver in her voice.
"Well?" said Nap. He did not touch her hand. His fingers were wound in the thong of his riding-crop and strained at it incessantly as if seeking to snap it asunder.
Dot was on the verge of tears. She choked them back desperately. "You might behave as if we were," she said.