“My dear boy,” she said with an effort, “I’m sorry. I daresay it is unreasonable. But that kind of thing does seem to me so disgusting. That’s all. … I didn’t come to talk about that. … Tell me—”
“Didn’t you?” said Laurie.
Maggie was silent.
“Didn’t you?”
“Well—yes I did. But I don’t want to any more.”
Laurie smiled so that it might be seen.
“Well, what else did you want to say?” (He glanced purposely at the book. Maggie ignored his glance.)
“I just came to see how you were getting on.”
“How do you mean? With the book?”
“No; in every way.”
He looked up at her swiftly and suddenly, and she saw that his agony of sorrow was acute beneath all his attempts at superiority, his courteous fractiousness, and his set face. She was filled suddenly with an enormous pity.
“Oh! Laurie, I’m so sorry,” she cried out. “Can’t I do anything?”
“Nothing, thanks; nothing at all,” he said quietly.
Again pity and misery surged up within her, and she cast all prudence to the winds. She had not realized how fond she was of this boy till she saw once more that look in his eyes.