We both laughed, thinking of Jesse the Terrible.
"The dear old Matilda!" she said,—almost whispered,—and her eyes grew softer.
"Happy times, weren't they? And coming after what I'd left—" I shook my head.
"Tell me, Will."
"I've wondered how much was my not understanding," I went on, "and how much I had to kick about. I suppose if I was older, I'd be like Sax—keep my troubles to myself—but I haven't learned how, yet. Still, I don't want to spoil your morning."
She frowned a little at Saxton's name, not an ill-tempered, but a thoughtful frown, as a new idea struck her. She put it away from her, and turned.
"That you should come to me, Will, is a high compliment. I know you're not the kind to give your woes to the world. If—" she smiled at me, "if you won't think it heartless of me, I'll say I'll enjoy hearing 'em."
"I understand," I answered; "just as, in a way, I'll enjoy telling them. Well, here we go."
So I put the facts to her as fair and calm as I could, patterning after Saxton's method. I hadn't his nerve; gradually heat swept into my discourse. I forgot where I was and who I was talking to, as the old wrongs boiled up.
When I finished I remembered, and sat back.