"Good-night," he said, and then with a half-laugh, "Which is your bell?"
She found it and rang it. Presently there was a rusty click, and the inner door opened an inch or so. Neither of them spoke for a full minute. Then she, her face aflame in the darkness:
"When you came I was only a little fool who'd bought a pair of shoes that were too tight for her. I didn't know anything. I'm wise now. I know that I'm dreaming, and that if I wake up before the dream is ended I shall die."
She tried to laugh gayly and could not.
"I've made things harder for you instead of easier," he said. "I'm terribly sorry. I meant well."
"Oh, it isn't that," she said. "Thank you a thousand thousand times. And good-night."
"Wait," he said. "Will you play with me again some time? How about Saturday?"
"No," she said. "It wouldn't be fair—to me. Good-night."
She passed through the inner door and up the narrow creaking stair to the dark tenement in which she lived; she could hear the restless breathing of her sleeping family.