“I just got busy. I worked like—well, I got busier than I ever was in my life. When I got the page SURE, I let myself go a bit, sort of hoping. And then this Temple Barholm thing hits me.”
“That's the thing you've got to think of now,” said Little Ann. “I'm going to talk sensible to you.”
“Don't, Ann! Good Lord! DON'T!”
“I MUST.” She put her last tight roll into the trunk and tried to shut the lid. “Please lock this for me.”
He locked it, and then she seated herself on the top of it, though it was rather high for her, and her small feet dangled. Her eyes looked large and moist like a baby's, and she took out a handkerchief and lightly touched them.
“You've made me want to cry a bit,” she said, “but I'm not going to.”
“Are you going to tell me you don't want me?” he asked, with anxious eyes.
“No, I'm not.”
“God bless you!” He was going to make a dash at her again, but pulled himself up because he must. “No, by jings!” he said. “I'm not going to till you let me.”
“You see, it's true your head's not like mine,” she said reasonably. “Men's heads are mostly not like women's. They're men, of course, and they're superior to women, but they're what I'd call more fluttery-like. Women must remind them of things.”