"Why not?"
"Oh, because—I hardly know why. I can't stand it when any one is kind to me, or sorry for me, sometimes at Mrs. Barton's. I don't know how to bear it. But it does not matter much, for I get braver and braver when people are hard and cold. I really don't mind that half as much as you would think, so you see you needn't pity me. In fact, you mustn't."
"Indeed, I think I must," said Percival. "More than before."
"No, no," she answered, hurriedly. "Don't say it, don't look it, don't even let me think you do it in your heart. Tell me about yourself. You listen to me, you ask about me, but you say nothing of what you are doing."
"Working." There was a moment's hesitation. "And dreaming," he added.
"But you have been ill?"
"Not I."
"You have not been ill? Then you are ill. What makes you so pale?"
He laughed: "Am I pale?"
"And you look tired."