She sat with her eyes closed, tears seeping through them, and her fist beating softly into her palm.
"Oh, Albert—Albert—how can I make you understand? My brain is bursting—"
"Lilly," he interrupted, explosively reaching out and closing over her wrist, and sudden perception lifting his voice, "I know! You—you're not well! You're ailing. Women aren't—aren't always quite themselves—at times. You—Lilly—could it be—"
"No! No! No! I'll go mad if you, too, begin to insinuate—that! I'm myself, I tell you. Never more so in my life."
He regarded her through frank and even tender tears, his voice humoring her.
"Of course, you're high strung, Lilly, and a high-strung woman is like a high-strung horse, has to be handled lightly. Don't exert yourself. If—if I'm embarrassing to you—talk to mother. These are the times a girl needs her mother. You go ahead and pick on me to your heart's content. I—I'm a pretty slow kind of fellow about some things. Never been around women enough. Come, it's ten-thirty-six. You need all the sleep you can get. Come, Lilly. Why—I—I've been thick-headed—that's all."
She suffered him to kiss her on the cheek as she turned her face from him.
"Have it your own way," she said, limp with a sudden sense of futility and as if all the reflex resiliency had oozed out of her.
"We're all right together, Lilly. Just don't you worry your head. We'll get adjusted in no time. You and—and mother talk things over to-morrow. I've been a thick-headed old fool. Pshaw! I—Pshaw!"
She moved to the dresser, removing pins until her hair fell shiningly all over her, brushing through its thick fluff and weaving it into two heavy braids over her shoulders. He laid hesitant and rather clumsy hands to its thickness.