She rose involuntarily. “You make me ashamed to think that you're so much mistaken about me! I know how we all influence each other—I know I always try to be what I think people expect me to be—I can't be myself—I know what you mean; but you—you must be yourself, and not let—” She stopped in her wandering speech, in strange agitation, and he rose too.
“I hope you're not offended with me!”
“Offended? Why? Why do you—go so soon?”
“I thought you were going,” he answered stupidly.
“Why, I'm at home!”
They looked at each other, and then they broke into a happy laugh.
“Sit down again! I don't know what I got up for. It must have been to make some tea. Did you know Madeline had bequeathed me her tea-kettle—the one we had at the St. Albans?” She bustled about, and lit the spirit-lamp under the kettle.
“Blow out that match!” he cried. “You'll set your dress on fire!” He caught her hand, which she was holding with the lighted match in it at her side, after the manner of women with lighted matches, and blew it out himself.
“Oh, thank you!” she said indifferently. “Can you take it without milk?”
“Yes, I like it so.”