“I don’t know, Ellen. That’s what makes it so kind of awful. I can’t tell whether it’s a real fancy, or I only think it is. Sometimes I think it is, and sometimes I think that I think so because I am afraid to believe it. Do you under Ellen?”
“It seems to me that I do. But you oughtn’t to let your fancy run away with you, Boyne. What a queer boy!”
“It’s a kind of fascination, I suppose. But whether it’s a real fancy or an unreal one, I can’t get away from it.”
“Poor boy!” said his sister.
“Perhaps it’s those books. Sometimes I think it is, and I laugh at the whole idea; and then again it’s so strong that I can’t get away from it. Ellen!”
“Well, Boyne?”
“I could tell you who it is, if you think that would do any good—if you think it would help me to see it in the true light, or you could help me more by knowing who it is than you can now.”
“I hope it isn’t anybody that you can’t respect, Boyne?”
“No, indeed! It’s somebody you would never dream of.”
“Well?” Ellen was waiting for him to speak, but he could not get the words out, even to her.