nfusion, looking like a man who was suffering and yet a little
like a teasing boy. Then he abruptly pulled his hat down over his eyes
again, as if to shade them from the sun, and lay flat on his back, one
heel kicking at the grass. She could not see his eyes, but she saw his
mouth; that faint touch of pleasure in teasing which had perversely
lurked in pain had gone now; that twist of his compressed lips was pure
pain.

She was utterly bewildered, and so deeply concerned that she had to get
ahead of Deane some way, not let him shut himself in with a thing that
made his mouth look as if he was bearing physical pain. And then a new
thought shot into her concern for him, a thought that seemed too
preposterous to entertain, but that would not go away. It did not seem a
thing she could speak of; but as she looked at Deane, his mouth more
natural now, but the suggestion of pain left there, she had a sudden new
sense of all that Deane had done for her. She couldn't leave things like
this, no matter how indelicate she might seem.

"Deane," she began timidly, "I don't--in any way--for any reason--make
things hard for you, do I?"

For the moment he did not speak, did not push his hat back so she could
see his eyes. Then she saw that he was smiling a little; she had a
feeling that he was not realizing she could see the smile; it was as if
smiling to himself at something that bitterly amused him. It made her
feel rather sick; it let that preposterous idea spread all through her.

Then he sat up and looked quizzically at her. "Well, Ruth, you don't
expect me to deny, do you, that you did make a thing or two rather
hard?" He said it with that touch of teasing. "Was I so magnanimous," he
added dryly, "that I let you lose sight of the fact that I wanted you?"

Ruth colored and felt baffled; she was sure he knew well enough that was
not what she referred to. He looked at her, a little mockingly, a little
wistfully, as if daring her to go on.

"I wasn't talking about things long ago, Deane," she said. "I
wondered--" She hesitated, looking at him in appeal, as if asking him to
admit he understood what she meant without forcing her to say such a
thing.

For a minute he let the pain look out of his eyes at her, looked for all
the world as if he wanted her to help him. Then quickly he seemed to
shut himself in. He smiled at her in a way that seemed to say, half
mockingly, "I've gone!" He hurt her a little; it was hard to be with
Deane