Earle looked down sadly at her.
"Doris," he said, "you are so sadly changed to me, I cannot understand it, dear. You say that I have not displeased you?"
"No," she said, carelessly, "I am not in the least displeased."
"Then, what have I done, my darling? I love you too madly to suffer anything to come between us. If I could win your love by dying for it, I would cheerfully die. Tell me what I can do to make you as you were once to me?"
She raised her head impatiently.
"You are always talking nonsense, Earle. I cannot regulate my words and thoughts as I would regulate a clock. I cannot undertake to be always the same."
"You are charming, but your variety used to be one of your greatest charms. I do not complain of that—the summer sky changes; it goes from crimson to blue, and then white—you changed from grave to gay, and in each mood you seemed to me most charming. It is not that now."
"What is it, then?" she asked.
He looked so wistfully at her that, if she had had any heart, it must have been touched.
"I can hardly tell—I dare not even to myself say what your manner seems to me. Doris, you cannot surely repent of having promised to marry me—it cannot be that?"