I can see her now, the darling. She had wetted the corner of her handkerchief with her little pink tongue and was rubbing the Buddha. Her hands had begun to tremble when he shouted.
“Put it down, can’t you? I’ve told you not to touch my things.”
[Illustration: “I’ve told you not to touch my things.”]
“_You_ inked him,” she said. She was giving one last rub as he rose, threatening.
And, poor child, she did put it down. Indeed, she dropped it at his feet.
“Oh!” she cried out, and stooped quickly and picked it up. Her large tear-glassed eyes glanced at him, frightened.
“You beast! You know I’d die rather than break anything you care about.”
“It’ll be broken some day, if you _will_ come meddling.”
I couldn’t bear it. I said, “You mustn’t yell at her like that. You know she can’t stand it. You’ll make her ill again.”
“I’m sorry,” he said; but he made it sound as if he wasn’t.
“If you’re sorry,” she persisted, “you might let me stay with you. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”
“No; I don’t want you—I can’t work with you in the room.”
“He only means he’s not in love with _me_, dear.”
“He means I’m no use to him. I know I’m not. I can’t even sit on his manuscripts and keep them down. He cares more for that damned paper-weight than he does for me.”
That worked up his devil again. He _had_ to torment her.
“It can’t have cost you much,” he said. “And I may remind you that the paper-weight has _some_ intrinsic value.”
“Because he’s ashamed of himself, I suppose,” I said. “Oh, Cicely, why _will_ you answer him? You know what he is.”
“No!” she said passionately—“that’s what I don’t know. I never have known.”
“At least you know he’s in love with you.”
“He has a queer way of showing it, then. He never does anything but stamp and shout and find fault with me—all about an old paper-weight!”
She was caressing it as she spoke, stroking the alabaster Buddha as if it had been a live thing.
“His poor Buddha. Do you think it’ll break if I stroke it? Better not.... Honestly, Helen, I’d rather die than hurt anything he really cared for. Yet look how he hurts me.”
“Some men _must_ hurt the things they care for.”
“I wouldn’t mind his hurting, if only I knew he cared. Helen—I’d give anything to know.”
“He’s Scotch, my dear. It would kill him to tell you.”