"Come," he said, "that is better. I am glad that you feel like
laughing."
"As a matter of fact," she declared, "I feel much more like
crying. Don't you know that you were very foolish last night?
You ought to have left me alone. Why didn't you? You would have
saved yourself a great deal of trouble."
He nodded, as though that point of view did, in some degree,
commend itself to him.
"Yes," he admitted, "I suppose I should. I do not, even now,
understand why I interfered. I can only remember that it didn't
seem possible not to at the time. I suppose one must have
impulses," he added, with a little frown.
"The reflection," she remarked, helping herself to another roll,
"seems to annoy you."
"It does," he confessed. "I do not like to feel impelled to do
anything the reason for which is not apparent. I like to do just
the things which seem likely to work out best for myself."
"How you must hate me!" she murmured.
"No, I do not hate you," he replied, "but, on the other hand, you
have certainly been a trouble to me. First of all, I told a
falsehood at the boarding-house, and I prefer always to tell the
truth when I can. Then I followed you out of the house, which I
disliked doing very much, and I seem to have spent a considerable
portion of the time since, in your company, under somewhat
extraordinary circumstances. I do not understand why I have done
this."
"I suppose it is because you are a very good-hearted person," she
remarked.
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