Ellen began crying softly, making pathetic little noises that irritated Rosie beyond measure but were like to reduce George to a state of utter helplessness.
"Aw, Ellen," he begged, "please don't talk that way!"
But Ellen wanted to talk that way. She insisted on talking that way. Her pride had been dragged in the dust but, by this time, she was finding that dust, besides being choking, is also warm and friendly and soothing. Enforced humiliation is bitter but, once accepted, how sweet it is, how comforting! Witness the saints and martyrs, and be not surprised that Ellen O'Brien finally acknowledged as true all the charges her late admirer had made. The fact was he had been too gentle with her! She was worse, far worse than even he had supposed. She didn't see how any one could ever again tolerate the mere sight of her!
"Oh, George, how you must hate me!" she murmured brokenly.
"Hate you!" George protested breathlessly. "Why, kid, I'm just crazy about you!"
Rosie, listening, caught her breath sharply. Her phrase, which she had laboured hard to teach him! But where had he got the deep vibrating tone with which he spoke it? Rosie had never heard that before.
After a moment, Ellen quavered: "Even—even yet, George?"
"Even yet!" George cried in the same wonderful voice that sent little thrills up and down Rosie's back. "Why, Ellen girl, don't you know that ever since the first day I saw you you've been the onliest girl for me!"
His arm was around her now, straining her to him, and Rosie knew, but for her own presence, he would be kissing her.
"I—I don't see why, George."