r too simple by nature to suspect himself of any complicated
motive. She looked at him, but did not quite understand.

"You surely do not suppose that I ever cared for him!" she said, readily
suspecting that he suspected her.

He started perceptibly, and looked into her eyes. She was very truly in
earnest, but her exaggerated self-consciousness had given her tone a
colour which he did not recognize. Some seconds passed before he
answered her. Then the gentle light came into his face as he realized
how much he loved her.

"How foolish you are, love!" he exclaimed. "But Griggs is younger than
I--it would not be so very unnatural if you had cared for him."

She broke out passionately.

"Younger than you! So am I, much younger than you! But you are young,
too. I will not have you suggest that you are not young. Of course you
are. You are unkind, besides. As though it could make the slightest
difference to me, if you were a hundred years old! But you do not
understand what my love for you is. You will never understand it. I wish
I loved you less; I should be happier than I am."

He drew her to him, reluctant, and the pained look which Francesca knew
so well came into his face.

"Are you unhappy, my heart?" he asked gently. "What is it, dear? Tell
me!"

She was nervous, and the confession or complaint had been unintentional
and the result of irritation more than of anything else. The fact that
he had taken it up made matters much worse. She was in that state in
which such a woman will make a mountain of a molehill rather than forego
the sympathy which her constitution needs in a larger measure than her
small sufferings can possibly claim.

"Oh, so unhappy!" she cried softly, hiding her face against his coat,
and glad to feel the tears in her eyes.

"But what is it?" he asked very kindly, smoothing her auburn hair with
one hand, while the other pressed her to him.

As he looked over her head at the wall, his face showed both pain and
perplexity. He had not the least idea what to do, except to humour her
as much as he could.

"I am so lonely, sometimes," she moaned. "The days are so long."

"And yet you do not come and sit with me in the mornings, as you used to
do at first." There was an accent of regret in his voice.

"She is always there," said Gloria, pressing her face closer to his
coat.

"Indeed she is not!" he cried, and she could feel the little breath of
indignation he drew. "I am a great deal alone.