“You are trying to be sarcastic,” she said. “But you know you’re not, really! You know it’s right for me to help Dad,—and you know it’s a pleasure—”
“Dad’s not a pauper,” he interrupted. “To hear you talk one would think he was! Why, my dear child, he’s been paying me for my services in the revision and completion of his work—”
“I know he has!” and she lifted her eyes trustfully to his face. “But he couldn’t very well afford it. You see, you’ve been very kind and patient, and no doubt you have made it easy for him—but now—now—”
“Now—now—what?” and the Philosopher wrinkled his face up in an alarming frown. “Now you propose to foot the bill? Nothing of the kind! I won’t have it! Do you understand? Sentiment can go too far—it always does with you!—but in this particular case I won’t have it! I decline to be affronted,—even by you!”
“Affronted? Oh, I wouldn’t vex you for the world!” And quick tears sprang to her eyes. “Indeed I wouldn’t! I want to tell you how sorry I am—very, very sorry!”
“Sorry for what?”
And the words were more like a snap than a phrase.
Her little hand pressed closer on his arm.
“For many things!” she murmured, penitently. “I’m sure—I see now that I have often quite misunderstood you—”
“Naturally!” he interrupted. “I’m not easy to understand! I should despise myself if I were! ‘To be great is to be misunderstood.’ You’ll find that in Emerson’s Essays.”