"Y-yes, I suppose so."
He laid his head on one side and inspected her critically.
"And if anything had been amiss with me you would have been sorry, wouldn't you?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Why? Because—one is sorry when a friend—when anyone——"
"I am your friend," he said. "So why not say it?"
"And I am yours—if you wish," she said.[144]
"Yes, I do." He began to write: "It's rather odd how friendship begins. We both seem to want to be friends." And to her he said: "How does it make you feel—the idea of our being friends? What emotions does it arouse in you?"
She looked at him in sorrowful surprise. "I thought it was real friendship you meant," she murmured, "not the sort to make a note about."