"I shouldn't sleep if I did," she said with a shiver. "No; I will help
you wash up, and then we will go upstairs and have some music."
Jerry fell in eagerly with this idea. He loved his banjo. He demurred a
little at accepting her assistance in the kitchen, but finally yielded,
for she would not be refused. She seemed to dread the thought of
solitude.
When they went upstairs at length, she made a great effort to shake off
her depression. She even sang a little to one or two of Jerry's melodies,
but her customary high spirits remained conspicuously absent, and after a
while Jerry became impatient, and laid the instrument down.
"What's the matter?" he asked bluntly.
Nan was sitting with her feet on the fender, her eyes upon the flames.
His question did not seem to surprise her.
"You wouldn't understand," she said, "if I were to tell you."
"Well, you might as well give me the chance," he responded. "My
intelligence is up to the average, I dare say."
She looked round at him with a faint smile.
"Oh, don't be huffy, dear boy! Why should you? You want to know what is
the matter? Well, I'll tell you. I'm afraid--I'm horribly afraid--that
I've made a great mistake."
"You have?" said Jerry. "How? What do you mean?"
"I knew you would ask that," she said, with a little, helpless gesture of
the shoulders. "And it is just that that I can't explain to you.
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