"Yes'm, I've saw you—" Dickie's English was peculiarly fallible in moments of emotion. Now he seemed determined to cut Sheila's description short. "Say, Sheila, did you send for me to tell me about this lovely friendship of yours with Jim?"
Sheila set her cup down on the window-sill. She did not want to lose her temper with Dickie. She brushed a wafer crumb from her knee.
"No, Dickie, I didn't. I sent for you because, after all, though I've been so angry with you, I've known in my heart that—that—you are a loyal friend and that you tell the truth."
This admission was an effort. Sheila's pride suffered to the point of bringing a dim sound of tears into her voice….
Dickie did not speak. He too put down his tea-cup and his wafer side by side on the floor near his chair. He put his elbows on his knees and bent his head down as though he were examining his thin, locked hands.
Sheila waited for a long minute; then she said angrily, "Aren't you glad
I think that of you?"
"Yes'm." Dickie's voice was indistinct.
"You don't seem glad."
Dickie made some sort of struggle. Sheila could not quite make out its nature. "I'm glad. I'm so glad that it kind of—hurts," he said.
"Oh!" That at least was pleasant intelligence to a wounded pride.