“No.”
“A hundred thanks! You are too gracious. I can be quiet if you like. I like staring into the fire and dreaming myself.”
Dan did not answer. Darsie peered at him, moving her little head from side to side so as to get the clearest view. He looked very large—a great shapeless mass of dark in the old red chair.
She liked the bigness of him, felt the old satisfaction at sight of the strong, rugged face, the old craving for confidence and approval. Strange how different one felt in company with different people. Tête-à-tête with Ralph Percival, Darsie felt a giant of strength and resource—assured, self-confident, a bulwark against which others might lean. With Dan, well, with Dan she was just a slip of a girl, conscious of nothing so much as her own weaknesses, mental and physical; her difficult gropings, compared with his clear vision; her tiny hands and wrists, compared with his big sinewy paw; her slim form, compared to the bulk of the square-cut shoulders. Never—Darsie realised it with a smile—never did she feel so humble and diffident as when in Dan’s society; yet, strangely enough, the sensation was far from disagreeable.
“Dan!”
“Darsie!”
“Is anything the matter? Between you and me! You don’t happen to be snarkey, do you, about anything I’ve done?”
“Why should you think I am ‘snarkey’?”
“Because—you are! You’re not a bit sociable and friendly—even your sort of sociability. I’m a guest in your mother’s house if I’m nothing else and it’s your duty to be civil.”
“Haven’t I always been civil to you, Darsie?”