Somehow Ashe winced before
the wreck of the handkerchief; what need to ruin the pretty, fragile
thing?
"I am quite sure no one will ever hate you for what you haven't done,"
he said, steadily. "That would be abominably unfair. But, you see, I
don't understand--and I don't like--I don't wish--to ask questions."
"
Do ask questions!" she cried, looking at him almost reproachfully.
"That's just what I want you to do--Only," she added, hanging her head
in depression, "I shouldn't know what to answer. I am played with, and
treated as a baby! There is something horrible the matter--and no one
trusts me--every one keeps me in the dark. No one ever thinks whether I
am miserable or not."
She raised her hands to her eyes and vehemently wiped away her tears
with the tattered lace handkerchief. In all these words and actions,
however, she was graceful and touching, because she was natural. She was
not posing or conscious, she was hiding nothing. Yet Ashe felt certain
she could act a part magnificently; only it would not be for the lie's
sake, but for the sake of some romantic impulse or imagination.
"Why should you torment yourself so?" he asked her, kindly.
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