“Why?”
Maisie rested her chin on her hand, and, still regarding the sea, spoke hurriedly—“I know what you want perfectly well, but I can’t give it to you, Dick. It isn’t my fault; indeed, it isn’t. If I felt that I could care for any one——But I don’t feel that I care. I simply don’t understand what the feeling means.”
“Is that true, dear?”
“You’ve been very good to me, Dickie; and the only way I can pay you back is by speaking the truth. I daren’t tell a fib. I despise myself quite enough as it is.”
“What in the world for?”
“Because—because I take everything that you give me and I give you nothing in return. It’s mean and selfish of me, and whenever I think of it it worries me.”
“Understand once for all, then, that I can manage my own affairs, and if I choose to do anything you aren’t to blame. You haven’t a single thing to reproach yourself with, darling.”
“Yes, I have, and talking only makes it worse.”
“Then don’t talk about it.”
“How can I help myself? If you find me alone for a minute you are always talking about it; and when you aren’t you look it. You don’t know how I despise myself sometimes.”