"Yes," the girl caught at his last words. "I'll bet she was lonesome. Any one would be, living like that. That's what makes her queer I guess. I saw her both times with my own eyes come down the garden with her hands full of flowers. Both times I saw her stand quite still. And then Claire and I would see her drop her flowers to the ground. That was the funny part. She didn't throw them away. It wasn't that, you know."
"No, Gina."
"She'd, well, she'd drop them. One by one. As if—"
"As if what, Gina?"
"Oh, as if she were being made to do it."
He went to his knees then. He buried his head in the girl's lap.
She leaned anxiously forward, her hand smoothing his hair.
"Billy—Billy, dear—aren't you well? Billy, tell me."
He could not bring himself to speak.
"Billy, is this what you do when I come home to you? Shame on you, Billy! Why—why, Billy, aren't you glad to have me here? Say, aren't you?"