She shrugged her shoulders, as if to imply that she considered the question superfluous.
“Of course I do,” she answered; “and of course we all do. Dolly is the sort of person likely to be missed.”
She was so petulant about it that, not understanding her, he was both amused and puzzled, and so by degrees was drawn into making divers gallant, almost caressing speeches, such as might have been drawn from him by the changeful mood of a charming, wilful child.
“Something has made you angry,” he said. “What is it, Mollie?”
“Nothing has made me angry,” she replied. “I am not angry.”
“But you look angry,” he returned, “and how do you suppose I am to be interesting when you look angry?”
“It cannot matter to you,” said Miss Mollie, “whether I am angry or not.”
“Not matter!” he echoed, with great gravity. “It amounts to positive cruelty. Just at this particular moment I feel as if I should never smile again.”
She reddened to her very throat, and then turned round all at once, flashing upon him such a piteous, indignant, indescribable glance as almost startled him.
“You are making fun of me,” she cried out. “You always make fun of me. You would n't talk so to Dolly.” And that instant she burst into tears.