"I don't know," I answered, sobbing.
He gazed at me with a worried look. Then he pulled out a fat, white lozenge from his vest pocket, and offered it to me.
"Here, take that," he said, generously.
I examined it through my tears with strong disfavor. It looked like medicine. Still I did not want to hurt his feelings. I ate it with misgivings.
"That's right," he said, radiantly. "They are good for sore throat. My father takes them. Don't you feel better now?"
"Yes," I answered, with a weak smile.
It was evident that in his way he meant to be kind, and, perhaps, after all the lozenge like the kiss might be a part of the game.
They were dancing in the parlor when we went back, and the fun was growing loud and furious. One little girl was singing, rapturously, as she danced, and two little boys were sliding in a corner. There was talk of supper. Somebody, peeking through a keyhole, had seen pink ice-cream, and had come away dazzled. The great hour was drawing near, and little boys were going about looking for their partners. Up at the end of the room Theodore's mother was talking to him.
He came to me afterwards, with a crest-fallen air: