"What's her name?"
"Why couldn't she live with you, Ambo?"
"She said I was cruel to her."
"Weren't you good to her, Ambo? Why? Didn't you like her?"
The rapid questions were so unexpected, so searching, that I gasped. And my first impulse was to lie to Susan, to put her off with a few conventional phrases—phrases that would lead the child to suppose me a wronged, lonely, broken-hearted man. This would win me a sympathy I had not quite realized that I craved. But Susan's eyes were merciless, and I couldn't manage it. Instead, I surprised myself by blurting out: "That's about it, Susan. I didn't like her—enough. We couldn't hit it off, somehow. I'm afraid I wasn't very kind."
Instantly Susan's thin arms went about my neck, and her cheek was pressed tight to mine.
"Poor Ambo!" she whispered. "I'm so sorry you weren't kind. It must hurt you so." Then she jumped from my knees.
"Ambo!" she demanded. "Is my room—her room? Is it?"
"Certainly not. It isn't hers any more. She's never coming back, I tell you. She put me out of her life once for all; and God knows I've put her out of mine!"