"I wish you would be more careful, Earle," she said. "You make my hair so untidy."
"I am very sorry, dear," he said, gently. "It is such beautiful hair, Doris, and I think it looks even more beautiful when it is what you call untidy."
"There is no reason why you should make it so," she retorted.
Then he looked with wondering eyes into her face.
"You are not well, or are you tired; which is it?"
"I am tired," she replied; "tired to death, Earle. Do not tease me."
"I ought to have remembered your long journey—of course you are tired. You ought to lie down, and I will read to you. That will rest you."
"Pray, do not be fussy, Earle. Other people get tired, but no one likes a fuss made over them."
Again he looked at her. Could this girl, who received him so coldly, so indifferently, be his own beautiful, bright Doris? It seemed incredible. Perhaps he had been so unfortunate as to offend her. He bent over her again.
"Doris," he said, gently, "have I been so unfortunate as to displease you?"