“It doesn’t make any difference whether I did or not,” Betty said. “I hate men.”
“I think I’d better be going,” Preston Eustace said, his face dark with pain. He was rather a literal-minded young man, as Caroline’s brother would have been likely to be.
Betty buried her face in her hands.
“My head aches,” she said, “and I was never in my life so mad and so miserable. I can’t 278 understand why everything and everybody should behave so—devilishly. You and every one else, I mean. I just simply can’t bear to have Nancy suffer so. My head aches and my heart aches and my soul aches.” She lifted her head defiantly.
“I think I had better be going,” Preston Eustace repeated, looking down at her sorrowfully.
“Oh! don’t be going,” Betty said. “What in the name of sense do you want to be going for?” Then without warning or premeditation she hurled herself at his breast. “Oh! Preston, if there is anything comforting in this world,” she said, “tell it to me, now.”
Preston Eustace gathered her to his breast with infinite tenderness.
“I love you,” he said with his lips on her brow. “Doesn’t that comfort you a little?”
“Yes,” she admitted, “yes,” winding her arms about his neck, “but you have no idea what a little devil I am, Preston.”
“I don’t want to have any idea,” he said, still holding her hungrily.