"Tell me, foolish boy, what is the matter?"
"I do not like to see you always—that you should always—sit so—with Bertie."
The words forced their way against his will; and now that they were spoken it seemed to him that he had meant to say something quite different. Eva was amazed.
"Sit so with Bertie!" she repeated. "How do I sit with Bertie? Have I done anything I ought not? Or—tell me, Frank, are you so horribly jealous?"
He clasped her closer, and, kissing her hair, he muttered: "Yes, yes! I am jealous."
"But of Bertie—your best friend, who lives with you? You cannot surely be jealous of him!"
She burst out laughing, and, carried away by her own mirth, fairly shook as she sat there, on his knee, with her head against his shoulder.
"Of Bertie!" she said, still gasping. "How is it possible? Oh, oh, of Bertie! But I only think of him as a pretty boy, almost a girl. He is so tiny, and has such neat little hands. Oh, oh! What! jealous of Bertie?"
"Do not laugh so!" he said, with a frown. "I really mean it—you are so familiar with him—"
"But he is your dearest friend!"