“I think I understand,” she said.
The child sat silent for a long while. Then she took the lighted candle and went and peered at the little design. She came back to the table, and put down the candle upon it:
“I like the way that lady’s head is placed right up against the top of the picture,” she said—“as if she felt something were crushing her down....” She put her small hands on her dainty head—“crushing and crushing her down—and she can’t get away from it, because—it’s all tangled—tangled—tangled. And it won’t come right.... It always feels just like that.”
“Good God!” said Netherby Gomme hoarsely—“has this child begun to suffer already?”
The child went to his knee and gazed at him:
“Your eyes are full of tears,” she said.
He blew his nose noisily:
“You must not take my tears too seriously, Betty,” said he—“I am a humorist.”
“But Mr.——”
“No, no, Betty—no misters, please, between us here—plain Netherby,” he corrected her.