I have not changed in the smallest
possible manner since then."
The man inspected his boots.
"Aren't you, too, going to be seated?" he suggested at length.
"Yes, certainly. To tell the truth I thought I was." She took a place
beside him. "I had forgotten."
They sat so, the man observing her narrowly, in real perplexity.
"Bess," he initiated baldly at last, "you're unhappy."
"I have not denied it," evenly.
The visitor caught his breath. He thought he was prepared for anything;
but he was finding his mistake.
"This life you've--selected, is wearing on you," he added. "Frankly, I
hardly recognise you, you used to be so careless and happy."
"Frankly," echoed the girl, "you, too, have altered, cousin mine. You're
dissipating. Even here one grows to recognise the signs."
The man flushed. It is far easier in this world to give frank criticism
than to receive it.
"I won't endeavour to justify myself, Bess," he said intimately, "nor
attempt to deny it. There is a reason, however."
"I've noticed," commented his companion, "that there usually is an
explanation for everything we do in this life."
"Yes. And in this instance you are the reason, Bess."
"Thank you." A pause. "I suppose I should take that as a compliment."
"You may if you wish. Leastways it's the truth."
The girl locked her fingers over her knees and leaned back against the
lintel of the door. She looked very young that moment--and very old.
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