"I will not cry," she said, not so firmly as she
thought she did.
"My blessed child!" he cried, in great distress and perturbation, "What
have I done? I--I----"
"Call me 'small' all you like!" she answered. "I don't care. It isn't
that. You mustn't think me such an imbecile." She dropped her hands from
her face and shook the tears from her eyes with a mournful laugh. He saw
that her hands were clenched tightly and her lip trembled. "I will not
cry!" she said in a low voice.
"Somebody ought to murder me; I ought to have thought--personalities _are_
hideous----"
"Don't! It wasn't that."
"I ought to be shot----"
"Ah, please don't say that," she said, shuddering; "please don't, not even
as a joke--after last night."
"But I ought to be for hurting you, indeed----"
She laughed sadly, again. "It wasn't that. I don't care what you call me.
I am small. You'll try to forgive me for being such a baby? I didn't mean
anything I said. I haven't acted so badly since I was a child."
"It's my fault, all of it. I've tired you out. And I let you get into
that crush at the circus--" he was going on, remorsefully.
"_That_!" she interrupted. "I don't think I would have missed the circus."
He had a thrilling hope that she meant the tent-pole; she looked as if she
meant that, but he dared not let himself believe it.
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