A dozen times the whole extravaganza came near collapse; a dozen
times Hugh saved it by a word, or Pete and Bella by a silence. Their
parts were not easy, and although Pete still smiled, his young clear
face grew whiter and more strained. Sylvie treated him always as
though he were a child. She would pat his head and rumple his hair
if he sat near her; once, suddenly, she kissed him lightly on the
cheek, after he had moved the chair for her.
"You're a dear, quiet boy," she said. "I frightened you to death,
then, didn't I? Hasn't anyone ever kissed you before?" His cheek
burned so that, touching it with her fingers, she laughed. "I've made
you blush, poor kid! I know. Boys hate petting, don't they? You'll
have to get used to it, Pete, because I mean to pet you--oh, a lot!
You need some one to draw you out. These two people snub you too much.
Boys of fourteen aren't quite children, after all, are they? Besides,
they're interesting. I know. I was fourteen myself not such ages back.
You're not cross, are you, Pete?"
His eyes were misty, and his hands were cold. He could not understand
his own emotion, his own pain. He muttered something and got himself
away. She called him "sullen" and was angry with him, complaining
to Hugh at supper that "Petey" had been "a bear" to her.
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