The others were chattering like magpies; only Will Dudley and I were silent. I felt his eyes watching me, but I wouldn’t look at him for quite a long time, till at last I simply had to turn round, when he smiled, such a kind nice smile, and said—
“Well, better now? Got the better of the little temper?”
“I don’t know; partly, I suppose, but I do hate to be snubbed. I didn’t want to sing. I did it to be polite; and it’s horrid to think I made an idiot of myself.”
Silence. It was no use. I had to ask him—
“Did I make an idiot of myself?”
“You know you didn’t.”
“Did you—did you think it was nice?”
“Yes.”
That was all. Not another word could I get out of him, but I felt better, for it sounded as if he really meant it, and I cared for his opinion most of all.