“I was up, and let you in—”
“Did you, Bessie? That was like you,” he said, tenderly.
“And I had to let him in, too. You pulled him into the house, and you made such a disturbance at the door that he had to come in for fear you would bring the police.”
“What a beast!” said Alan, of himself, as if it were some one else.
“He came in with you. And you wanted him to have some supper. And you fell asleep before the fire in the reception-room.”
“That—that was the dream!” said Alan, severely. “What are you talking that stuff for, Bessie?”
“Oh no!” she retorted, with a laugh, as if the pleasure of its coming in so fitly were compensation for the shame of the fact. “The dream was what happened afterward. The dream was that you fell asleep there, and left me there with him—”
“Well, poor old Westover; he's a gentleman! You needn't be worried about him—”
“You're not fit!” cried the girl. “I give it up.” She got upon her feet and stood a moment listless.
“No, I'm not, Bessie. I can't pull my mind together tonight. But look here!” He seemed to lose what he wanted to say. He asked: “Is it something I've got you in for? Do I understand that?”