“Angry?” he repeated after her.
“Yes,” she said, getting up from the bed where she had been sitting. “I thought you were when you asked me to come up here.”
He looked at her puzzled. She seemed to him a new Mary whom he had never seen before.
“Am I often angry?” he asked.
“Not angry exactly; but I get frightened that you are going to be cross, and then I say the silliest things—not because I want to, but because I want to be clever, and then, of course, I never am.”
He stood staring at her. “Am I as beastly as that?” he asked.
“Oh, you’re not beastly,” she reassured him. “Never—you’re not,” forgetting her grammar in her eagerness; “but I’m afraid of you, and I’m fonder of you than anybody—lots fonder—and I always say to myself, ‘Now I’m not going to be silly this time,’ and then I am. I don’t know why,” she sighed. “But I’m not nearly as silly as I seem,” she ended.
No, she wasn’t. He suddenly saw that, and he also suddenly saw that he had all this time been making a great mistake. Here was a possible companion, not only possible, but living, breathing, existing. She was on her own to-night, neither fearful nor silly, meeting him on his own level, superior to him, perhaps, knowing more than he did about many things, understanding his feelings. . . .
“I say, Mary, we’ll do things together. I’m awfully lonely sometimes. I want someone to tell things to—often. We’ll have a great time next holidays.”
It was the happiest moment of Mary’s life. Too much for her altogether. She just nodded and, clutching “Robinson Crusoe” to her, ran.