But now she merely beamed at each disagreeable remark, and, instead of scolding him, she made a most cryptic answer.
"Eh, my darling," she said. "Thank God you feel like blaming me again."
"What do you mean, Blessington?" said Archie angrily. "Oh, do take care of my little toe. You've nearly pulled it off once already."
"Well then, I'll kiss it," said Blessington. And did.
Archie looked at her.
"Why are you crying?" he asked, wriggling his foot away from her. He did not want it to be kissed.
"Crying? I'm just laughing," said Blessington. And that was true; she was laughing. But she was crying also.
An idea struck Archie which had not occurred to him before.
"Am I ill, Blessington?" he asked. "Am I going to die?"
At that there was no question of what Blessington was doing. Her laughing quite ceased, and she gave a great sob.
"No, my darling, you're not going to die," she said. "Get that out of your silly head. You're not.…"
And then she broke down altogether, and hid her face in the towel with which she had been washing Archie's left foot. He saw her shoulders shaking; he knew that, for some reason, she could not speak. But she was crying, and was not cross with him for being cross. It behoved a man to administer consolation.
"Oh, don't cry, Blessington," he said. "What is there to cry about? Unless it's because I'm so cross."
"I don't mind your crossness," she said. "You let me finish wiping your foot. And then I'll go down and tell your mamma"
"Oh, don't say I was cross," said Archie. "I'm sorry I was cross."
