She said it severely, as if Phœbe had been trying unfairly to deprive her of a privilege and a delight. They were delicious, Phœbe and Effie, but it was Phœbe that he wanted this time.
They set out at a brisk pace that brought the blood to Phœbe's cheeks and made her prettier than ever. Phœbe, of course, had done her best to make her prettiness entirely unobtrusive. She wore a muslin skirt and a tie, and a sailor hat that was not specially becoming to her small head, and her serge skirt had to be both wide and short because of pushing the bath-chair about through all kinds of weather. But the sea wind caught her; it played with her hair; it blew a little dark curl out of place to hang distractingly over Phœbe's left ear; it blew the serge skirt tight about her limbs, and showed him, in spite of Phœbe, how prettily Phœbe was made.
"Why didn't you back me up?" said Phœbe. "She wanted to come all the time."
He turned, as he walked, to look at her.
"Why didn't I back you up? Do you really want to know why?"
Whenever he took that tone Phœbe looked solemn and a little frightened. She was frightened now, too frightened to answer him.
"Because," said he, "I wanted you all to myself."
"Oh——" Phœbe drew a long, terrified breath.
There are many ways of saying "Oh," but Gibson had never, never in his whole life heard any woman say it as Phœbe said it then. It meant that she was staggered at anybody's having the temerity to want anything all to himself.
"Do you think me very selfish?"