"Oh, Dickie, Dickie! Can't you see how miserable I am! I am so unhappy and—and scared, and you—you are making fun of me."
At that, spoken in a changed and quavering key of helplessness, Dickie hurried to her, knelt down beside her chair, and took her hands.
"Sheila! I'll do anything!"
His presence, his boyish, quivering touch, so withheld from anything but boyishness, even the impulsive humility of his thin, kneeling body, were inexpressibly soothing, inexpressibly comforting. She did not draw away her hands. She let them cling to his.
"Dickie, will you answer me, quite truthfully and simply, without any explaining or softening, please, if I ask you a—a dreadful question?"
"Yes, dear."
"I'm not sure if it is a dreadful question, but—but I'm afraid it is."
"Don't worry. Ask me. Surely, I'll answer you the truth without any fixin's."
Her hands clung a little closer. She was silent, gathering courage. He felt her slim knees quiver.
"What do they mean, Dickie," she whispered with a wan look, "when they call me—'Hudson's Queen'?"