Her slim pliant length was flung out along the bed, and she was crying. Her beautiful hands clutched the corners of a pillow bitterly.
He crept over to the bed, patting her shoulder, slowly and regularly, too frightened of her mood even to want to kiss her.
She looked up, laughing tearfully. “Please say, ‘There, there, there; don’t cry.’ It always goes with pats for weepy girls, you know…. O Mouse, you will be good to some woman some day.”
Her long strong arms reached up and drew him down. It was his head that rested on her shoulder. It seemed to both of them that it was he who was to be petted, not she. He pressed his cheek against the comforting hollow of her curving shoulder and rested there, abandoned to a forlorn and growing happiness, the happiness of getting so far outside of his tight world of Wrennishness that he could give comfort and take comfort with no prim worried thoughts of Wrenn.
Istra murmured: “Perhaps that’s what I need—some one to need me. Only—” She stroked his hair. “Now you must go, dear.”
“You—It’s better now? I’m afraid I ain’t helped you much. It’s kinda t’ other way round.”
“Oh yes, indeed, it’s all right now! Just nerves. Nothing more. Now, good night.”
“Please, won’t you come to the picnic to-morrow? It’s—”
“No. Sorry, but can’t possibly.”
“Please think it over.”