I replied with a cold look, as much as to say, “You are very polite, but what is the use of asking?” He shook his head and smiled with a tender timid air; but his smile, for the first time, drew no answering smile from me.
“What happened to you today?” I asked; “why did you not tell me?”
“Nothing much—a trifling nuisance,” he said. “But I might tell you now. Two of our serfs went off to the town …”
But I would not let him go on.
“Why would you not tell me, when I asked you at breakfast?”
“I was angry then and should have said something foolish.”
“I wished to know then.”
“Why?”
“Why do you suppose that I can never help you in anything?”
“Not help me!” he said, dropping his pen. “Why, I believe that without you I could not live. You not only help me in everything I do, but you do it yourself. You are very wide of the mark,” he said, and laughed. “My life depends on you. I am pleased with things, only because you are there, because I need you …”
“Yes, I know; I am a delightful child who must be humoured and kept quiet,” I said in a voice that astonished him, so that he looked up as if this was a new experience; “but I don’t want to be quiet and calm; that is more in your line, and too much in your line,” I added.
“Well,” he began quickly, interrupting me and evidently afraid to let me continue, “when I tell you the facts, I should like to know your opinion.”