"By Jove, Jack, aren't angry, are you? See, when you put it at the throat it doesn't look half bad!"
And to try it, he pinned it on her shirt. She caught both his hands, kissed them again and again, and then buried her face against them as she sobbed. If the heavens had opened and a cloudburst crashed on the roof of the house, he would have been less astounded.
"What is it?" he cried. "Damn it all—Jack—you see—I meant—"
But she tore herself away and flung herself face down on the bunk, sobbing more bitterly than ever. He followed, awestricken—terrified.
He touched her shoulder, but she shrank away and seemed more distressed than ever. It was not the crying of a weak woman: these were heart-rending sounds, like the sobbing of a man who has never before known tears.
"Jack—perhaps I've done something wrong—"
He stammered again: "I didn't dream I was hurting you—"
Then light broke upon him.
He said: "It's because you don't want to be treated like a silly girl; eh, Jack?"
But to complete his astonishment she moaned: "N-n-no! It's b-b-because you—you n-n-never do t-treat me like a g-g-girl, P-P-Pierre!"