"Because, Aunt Bell, I must be quite—quite certain that Allan is funny. It would be dreadful to make a mistake. If only I could be certain—positive—convinced— sure—that Allan is the funniest thing in all the world——"
"It never occurred to me that Allan is funny." Aunt Bell paused for an instant's retrospect. "Now, he doesn't joke much."
"One doesn't have to joke to be a joke, Aunt Bell."
"But what if he were funny? Why is that so important?"
"Oh, it's important because of the other thing that you know you know when you know that."
"Mercy! Child, you should have a cup of cocoa or something before you start off—really——"
The last long hatpin seemingly pierced the head of Nancy and she turned from the glass to fumble on her gloves.
"Aunt Bell, if Allan tells me once more in that hurt, gentle tone that I don't please him, I believe I shall be the freest of free women—ready to live."
She paused to look vacantly into the wall. "Sometimes, you know, I seem to wake up with a clear mind— but the day clouds it. We shouldn't believe so many falsities, Aunt Bell, if they didn't pinch our brains into it at a tender age. I should know Allan through and through at a glance to-day, if I met him for the first time; but he kneaded my poor girl's brain this way and that, till I'd have been done for, Aunt Bell, if some one else hadn't kneaded and patted it into other ways, so that little memories come back and stay with me— little bits of sweetness and genuineness—of realness, Aunt Bell."
"Nance, you are morbid—and I think you're wrong to go up there to be alone with your sick fancies—why are you going, Nance?"