It took a minute to elicit an answer. It came finally in a little sniffly whisper.
"My head's all right, Agatha."
"Probably that short-cake disagreed with you. I wondered at the time, if two helps weren't too many, with the whipped cream."
"My stomach's all right, too," declared Miss Finch, a trifle pettishly.
"Then where's the pain?"
Miss Finch deliberated. Her tears gushed afresh. "I—guess it's in my heart. I'm worried, Agatha."
Agatha sat down on the side of the bed, and sighed remorsefully.
"I know it's been a hard summer for you, Fritz. All this deception is very trying for one of your candid temperament. I should mind it frightfully myself if it wasn't for the fun of the thing. But I adored amateur theatricals when I was in boarding-school, and this is exactly the same, except that you have to make up your part as you go along. I knew that you'd been worrying, but I didn't dream how dreadfully you'd taken it to heart."
Miss Finch opened one swollen eye. She looked rather taken aback.