Do you
think I did? No, no! You mustn't tell Irene! Not--
not--yet! Mother! Yes! I did try to get him from her!"
she cried, lifting her head, and suddenly looking her
mother in the face with those large dim eyes of hers.
"What do you think? Even last night! It was the first time
I ever had him all to myself, for myself, and I know
now that I tried to make him think that I was pretty
and--funny. And I didn't try to make him think of her.
I knew that I pleased him, and I tried to please him more.
Perhaps I could have kept him from saying that he cared for me;
but when I saw he did--I must have seen it--I couldn't.
I had never had him to myself, and for myself before.
I needn't have seen him at all, but I wanted to see him;
and when I was sitting there alone with him, how do I know
what I did to let him feel that I cared for him? Now,
will you tell Irene? I never thought he did care for me,
and never expected him to. But I liked him. Yes--I did like
him! Tell her that! Or else I will."
"If it was to tell her he was dead," began Mrs. Lapham absently.
"How easy it would be!" cried the girl in self-mockery.
"But he's worse than dead to her; and so am I. I've turned
it over a million ways, mother; I've looked at it in every
light you can put it in, and I can't make anything but misery
out of it.
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