glimpse of her eyes before she looked down. "It's spoiled, isn't it?" she said, in a low voice.
"What's 'spoiled?"
"Our walk—well, everything. Somehow it always—is."
"'Always is' what?" he asked.
"Spoiled," she said.
He laughed at that; but without looking at him she suddenly offered him her hand, and, as he took it, he felt a hurried, violent pressure upon his fingers, as if she meant to thank him almost passionately for being kind. She was gone before he could speak to her again.
In her room, with the door locked, she did not go to her mirror, but to her bed, flinging herself face down, not caring how far the pillows put her hat awry. Sheer grief had followed her anger; grief for the calamitous end of her bright afternoon, grief for the "end of everything," as she thought then. Nevertheless, she gradually grew more composed, and, when her mother tapped on the door presently, let her in. Mrs. Adams looked at her with quick apprehension.
"Oh, poor child! Wasn't he———"
