“Good gracious!” she cried. “I hadn’t realized it was THAT bad!”
For this, though he contrived to laugh, he seemed to have no verbal retort whatever; but followed her into the “living-room,” where she stopped and turned, facing him.
“Has it really been so frightful?” she asked.
“Why, of course not. Not at all.”
“Of course yes, though, you mean!”
“Not at all. It’s been most kind of your mother and father and you.”
“Do you know,” she said, “you’ve never once looked at me for more than a second at a time the whole evening? And it seemed to me I looked rather nice to-night, too!”
“You always do,” he murmured.
“I don’t see how you know,” she returned; and then stepping closer to him, spoke with gentle solicitude: “Tell me: you’re really feeling wretchedly, aren’t you? I know you’ve got a fearful headache, or something. Tell me!”
“Not at all.”
“You are ill—I’m sure of it.”
“Not at all.”
“On your word?”
“I’m really quite all right.”
“But if you are–-” she began; and then, looking at him with a desperate sweetness, as if this were her last resource to rouse him, “What’s the matter, little boy?” she said with lisping tenderness. “Tell auntie!”
It was a mistake, for he seemed to flinch, and to lean backward, however, slightly. She turned away instantly, with a flippant lift and drop of both hands. “Oh, my dear!” she laughed. “I won’t eat you!”
And as the discomfited young man watched her, seeming able to lift his eyes, now that her back was turned, she went to the front door and pushed open the screen. “Let’s go out on the porch,” she said. “Where we belong!”
Then, when he had followed her out, and they were seated, “Isn’t this better?” she asked. “Don’t you feel more like yourself out here?”
He began a murmur: “Not at–-“
But she cut him off sharply: “Please don’t say ‘Not at all’ again!”
“I’m sorry.”
“You do seem sorry about something,” she said. “What is it? Isn’t it time you were telling me what’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Indeed nothing’s the matter. Of course one IS rather affected by such weather as this. It may make one a little quieter than usual, of course.”
She sighed, and let the tired muscles of her face rest. Under the hard lights, indoors, they had served her until they ached, and it was a luxury to feel that in the darkness no grimacings need call upon them.
“Of course, if you won’t tell me–-” she said.
“I can only assure you there’s nothing to tell.”
“I know what an ugly little house it is,” she said. “Maybe it was the furniture—or mama’s vases that upset you. Or was it mama herself—or papa?”
“Nothing ‘upset’ me.”
At that she uttered a monosyllable of doubting laughter. “I wonder why you say that.”
“Because it’s so.”
“No. It’s because you’re too kind, or too conscientious, or too embarrassed—anyhow too something— to tell me.” She leaned forward, elbows on knees and chin in hands, in the reflective attitude she knew how to make graceful. “I have a feeling that you’re not going to tell me,” she said, slowly. “Yes—even that you’re never going to tell me. I wonder—I wonder–-“
“Yes? What do you wonder?”
“I was just thinking—I wonder if they haven’t done it, after all.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I wonder,” she went on, still slowly, and in a voice of reflection, “I wonder who HAS been talking about me to you, after all? Isn’t that it?”
“Not at–-” he began, but checked himself and substituted another form of denial. “Nothing is ‘it.’”
“Are you sure?”
“Why, yes.”
“How curious!” she said.
“Why?”
“Because all evening you’ve been so utterly different.”
