“Come upstairs a minute. I want to speak to you.”
She followed him tremulously. He seemed to be clothed in his domineering manner. How often, especially of late, she had determined that she would not be afraid of him, but would dig up from within her the common sense, the easy companionship, the laughter that were all there for him, she knew, could she only be at her ease! She even sympathized with him in thinking her so often a fool! She was a fool when she was with him, simply because she cared for him so much and thought him so wonderful and so clever!
He didn’t like the book! He was going to thank her for it in the way that he had when he was trying to be polite, and didn’t find it easy. She followed him into the bedroom. He carefully closed the door. She saw at once that the book lay exactly where she had placed it on the bed—that he had not even opened it. He regarded her sternly.
“Sit down on that chair!” he said. She sat down.
“Look here, you oughtn’t to have given me that book. You know that Aunt Lucy sent that money for you to spend on yourself.”
“I thought you’d like it,” she said, pushing at her spectacles as she always did when she was distressed.
“I do like it,” he said. “It’s splendid. But I’ve done something awful—and I’ve got to tell you now you’ve given me that.”
“Oh, Jeremy! something awful! What is it?”
He set his jaw and, without looking at her, made his confession.
“That day I went in with Miss Jones to St. Mary’s I was going to buy you a present. And I did buy you one. I went into that same shop you went to and I bought ‘Robinson Crusoe’ just like the one you bought me. When I bought it I meant it for you, of course, but when I got home I liked it so much I kept it for myself and I gave you that old bottle instead—and then I didn’t like the rotten book after all and I’ve never looked at it since your birthday.”