“You should not play with me.”
“Play with you? I was not playing. I only asked you to take me to see this room, and this Edwin Lawrence, of whom you keep on speaking—that was all.”
“Yes, that was all.”
“Why do you look at me like that. You make me afraid of you. I thought you were my friend.”
“How can I be your friend, to act a real friend’s part, if you will not trust me?”
“Trust you? Don’t I trust you? I thought I did.”
She spoke like a child, and she was a lovely woman. I knew not what to make of her, what to answer. I had a hundred things to say, which, sooner or later, would have to be said. How was I to express them in words which would reach her understanding? Was she, naturally, mentally deficient? I could not believe it. Hers was not the face of an imbecile. Intellect, intel
