Lois did not speak.
“If you'd just tell me one way or the other, Lois.”
“I can't. I can't anyway!” cried Lois then, with a great sob.
“Well, if you can't, don't cry, little girl. There's nothing to cry about. I can stand it. All the trouble is, it does seem to me that I could take care of you better than any other fellow on earth, but maybe that's my conceit, and you'll find somebody else that will do better than I. Now don't cry.” Francis pulled her hat off gently, and patted her head. His face was quite white, but he tried to smile. “Don't cry, dear,” he said again. “It was nothing you could help. I didn't much suppose you liked me. There's nothing much in me to like. I'm an ordinary kind of a fellow.”
Francis got up and walked off a little way.
Lois sobbed harder. Finally she stole a glance at him between her fingers. She could see his profile quite pale and stern as he stood on the edge of the terrace. She made a little inarticulate call, and he turned quickly.
“What is it, Lois?” he asked, coming toward her.
“I didn't say—I—didn't like you,” she whispered faintly.
“Lois!”
“I didn't say so.”