"Don't," she said. "Hush! We have only just found out. He went away
because he couldn't bear his own happiness. Pete--" She felt for him
and her hand touched his cheek. "Oh, Pete, your face is wet. You're
crying."

"No, I'm not," he denied evenly. "It was melting from the roof when
I came in."

She sighed. "You are so strange, Pete. Will you let me kiss you
now--since you are going to be my big little brother?"

"I can't," he whispered. "I can't."

She laughed and crooked her arm about his neck, forcing his face down
to hers. His lips were hard and cool.

The face that Sylvie imagined a boy's face, shy and blushing, half
frightened, half cross, perhaps a trifle pleased, was so white and
patient a face in its misery that her blind tenderness seemed almost
like an intentional cruelty. It was an intensity of feeling almost
palpable, but Sylvie's mouth remained unburnt, though it removed
itself with a pathetic little twist of disappointment.

"You don't need to say anything," she said, "You've shown me how you
feel. You can't like me. You are sorry I came. And I want so
dreadfully for some one just now to talk to--to help me, to
understand. It's all dark and wonderful and frightening. I wish I
had a brother--"