"Oh, I am so sorry! so _very_ sorry! What can I do for you?" began
Hilliard. "Oh! mayn't I--"
I was so mortified that I got very mad; I hate to cry, any way, and
above all before this stiff wooden boy! I threw my hands over my face,
and turning my back on him, started for the house, walking as fast as I
could, stumbling sometimes on the uneven beach.
But Hilliard followed close behind me. "I'm _so_ sorry!" he repeated.
"Why didn't you let me know sooner? May I--"
I got so provoked that I wheeled round suddenly on him,--I think I
startled him. "Oh, _do_ stop _asking_ people if you 'may' or 'mayn't do
things for them,"--I'm afraid that here I mimicked his tone of voice.
"_Do_ the things first, and then ask,--if you must. I declare, you don't
know the very first thing about taking care of a girl; why, our Paul
could do better."
Hilliard stood stock still and stared at me; his sleepy eyes were
wide open, and there was such a bewildered expression on his face
that it just set me off laughing, in spite of the tears on my cheeks,
and my headache.
"I am exceedingly sorry if I have neglected--" he began stiffly; but
before he could say any more I turned and fled.
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