Miss Morton gasped; she stared for an instant into Henry’s flushed, eager face with its pleading eyes. Then she laughed.
“Why you—you funny little fat man,” she cried.
Henry withdrew his hand as though from a red-hot stove.
“No—no, I didn’t mean that. Oh, I’m sorry—really, I am, Mr. Jones. I didn’t mean to hurt you—really I didn’t. But you are funny, you know, when you talk like that.” The girl poured out the words swiftly. Her tone was contrite, but the merriment did not die out of her eyes.
Henry sat up very stiff and straight, staring out over the glistening water.
“I didn’t know it was funny,” he said; the words came hardly above a whisper. “’Sall right, Miss Morton. Only—I didn’t know it would be funny.”
His eyes, with a dumb, hurt look in them like the look of a wounded dog, fell to hers an instant. Then in silence he turned the canoe and paddled back to her home.
Let us not pry too deeply into Henry’s feelings that terrible night. They can be imagined, but they cannot be told. He did not close his eyes until dawn, but sat propped up in bed, staring blankly across the moonlit little bedroom. Once in the middle of the night he became aware that his wife was not asleep, but lying wide awake watching him.
As he turned to face her, she put her hand gently upon his.
“What is it, dear?” she asked softly.