"It was raining that night," she said in her soft, delicate voice. "I
have had it dried and pressed. It is not hurt. I thought you would not
mind," she concluded.
"It does not matter at all--not in the least," I said unhappily.
I am quite sure now that she meant me to speak then. I can recall the
way she fixed her eyes on me, serene and expectant. She was waiting. But
to save my life I could not. And she did not. Had she gone as far as she
had the strength to go? Or was this again one of those curious pacts of
hers--if I spoke or was silent, it was to be?