“But you’ve begun to care for Reivers, haven’t you?” he said.
The girl looked up at him uncertainly.
“I don’t know. Oh, I don’t know! I don’t seem to have any will of my own toward him. I seem to see him as a different man. I know I shouldn’t; but I can’t help it, I can help it! He—he looks at me, and I feel as if—as if—” her voice died down to a horrified whisper—“I were nothing, and his wishes were the only things in the world.”
Toppy bowed his head.
“Then I guess there’s nothing for me to say.”
“Don’t!” she cried, stretching out her hand to restrain him as he turned away. “Don’t leave me—like that. You’re so rude to me lately. I feel so terribly alone when you—aren’t nice to me.”
“What difference can I make?” he said bitterly. “I’m not Reivers.”
She looked up at him again.
“Oh!” she cried suddenly. “Won’t you help me, Mr. Treplin? Can’t you help me?”
“Help you?” gasped Toppy. “May I? Can I? What can I do?”