the hard lights, indoors, they had served her until they ached,
and it was a luxury to feel that in the darkness no grimacings
need call upon them.

"Of course, if you won't tell me----" she said.

"I can only assure you there's nothing to tell."

"I know what an ugly little house it is," she said. "Maybe it
was the furniture--or mama's vases that upset you. Or was it
mama herself--or papa?"

"Nothing 'upset' me."

At that she uttered a monosyllable of doubting laughter. "I
wonder why you say that."

"Because it's so."

"No. It's because you're too kind, or too conscientious, or too
embarrassed--anyhow too something--to tell me." She leaned
forward, elbows on knees and chin in hands, in the reflective
attitude she knew how to make graceful. "I have a feeling that
you're not going to tell me," she said, slowly. "Yes--even that
you're never going to tell me. I wonder--I wonder----"

"Yes? What do you wonder?"

"I was just thinking--I wonder if they haven't done it, after
all."