“No; I fear not. This is good-bye.”
“You’re very casual about it,” she said, aggrieved. “At least, it would be polite to pretend.”
“What am I to pretend?”
“To be sorry. Aren’t you sorry? Just a little bit?”
“Yes; I’m sorry. Just a little bit—at least.”
“I’m most awfully sorry myself,” she said frankly. “I shall miss you.”
“As a curiosity?” he asked, smiling.
“As a friend. You have been a friend to us—to me,” she amended sweetly. “Each time I see you, I have more the feeling that you’ve been more of a friend than I know.”
“‘That which thy servant is,’” he quoted lightly. But beneath the lightness she divined a pain that she could not wholly fathom. Quite aware of her power, Miss Polly Brewster was now, for one of the few times in her life, stricken with contrition for her use of it.
“And I—I haven’t been very nice,” she faltered. “I’m afraid sometimes I’ve been quite horrid.”