There was something in his voice that moved her strangely, kindling that in her which turned her passionate regret to tragedy. Her head sank a little lower in her hands. How could she tell him? How could she? Yet he must know, even if—even if it transformed his love to hatred. The bare thought hurt her intolerably. He was the only friend she had. And yet—and yet—he must know. She swallowed a desperate sob, and spoke.
"I've been deceiving you. I've trifled with you. When you proposed to me—I didn't know—didn't realise—you were in earnest. No one had ever proposed to me before. I didn't understand. And when I accepted you—I wasn't in earnest either. I—I was just spiteful. Afterwards—when I found out—it was too late. I couldn't tell you then."
The confession went haltingly out into silence. She dared not raise her head. Moreover, she was weeping, and she did not want him to know it.
There was a motionless pause. Then at length the hand on her shoulder began to rub up and down, comfortingly, caressingly.
"Don't cry!" said Tots. "Hadn't you better have some breakfast? That bacon must be gettin' pretty beastly."
He was not angry, then. That was her first thought. And then again came that insane desire to laugh. After all, why was she crying? Tots apparently saw no cause for discomfiture.
With an effort she controlled herself.
"No; I'm not hungry," she said. "Won't you—please—settle this matter now?"
"Only stop cryin'," said Tots. "You have? I say, what a fib! Well, I suppose I must take your word for it. Now, little one, what is it you want me to do?"
She raised her head in sheer astonishment.