"Nothing, I suppose," he said at last, trying to speak lightly. "You had nothing before, you know."
"Ah, but that was different. Now, I must have something."
There was a strange ring in her voice—the young man laid down his pen and sat staring into the fire. It was like talking to a child—a queer child, full of feeling, knowing and imagining more than its elders often did. But still and for ever a child, asking simple questions now that were hard to answer without hurt.
The girl watched him anxiously.
"Don't be angry, Olof," she said entreatingly. "It's very silly of me, I know. Go on with your work, and don't bother about me. Do—or I shall be so sorry."
"You are so quick to feel things," said he, pressing her hand. "I'll talk to you about it all another time—do you understand?"
"Yes—another time. Don't think any more about it now."
But the words echoed insistently in his ears, with a hollow ring—as if he had spoken carelessly, to be rid of a child's questioning for the time. He took up his pen again, but could not work, only sat drawing squares and interrogations on the margin of the paper.
The girl moved closer, laid her cheek against his knee, and closed her eyes. But her mind was working still, and the light of a sudden impulse shone in her eyes when she looked up at him.
"Olof," she asked eagerly, "are you very busy?"