She repeated over and over, trying to imagine him in her place as listener, all she had said to him.

She gave it the furthest inflections of graciousness and coolness of which she could have been capable, and puzzled sorely as to which she had used.
"It makes so much difference as to how you say a thing," thought poor Lucina, "and I know I was afraid lest he think me too glad to have him come.

I wonder if I did not say enough, or did not say it pleasantly." It did not once occur to Lucina that Jerome might mean to slight her, and might stay away because he wished to do so.

She had been so petted and held precious and desirable during her whole sweet life, that she could scarcely imagine any one would flout her, though so timid and fearful of hurting and being hurt was she by nature, that without so much love and admiration she would have been a piteous thing.
She decided that it must be her fault that Jerome had not come.

She reflected that he was very proud; she remembered, and the memory stung her with something of the old pain of the happening, how he would not take the cakes when she was a child, how he would not take her money to buy shoes.