His face expresses disappointment.
"I am sure you are right," he says, moving away. "Try to rest, and forget your fatigue."
The remnant of conscience I still retain here smites me.
"My rooms are so pretty," I say, quickly, following him a step or two; "they are lovely. Was it all your own taste? It was so good of you to do it for me."
"You are pleased?" coloring. "I fancied you would like them changed."
"It was more than good of you," I say again, remorsefully. "You think of everything, and I am always ungrateful."
"Nonsense! Get back your old spirits, and I shall be richly rewarded." Then with a sudden, unexpected movement, "You are welcome home, Phyllis," he says, and bending, presses his lips to mine.
It is the very first caress he has offered me since our second marriage; and now it is the lightest, fleetest thing conceivable. Confused and puzzled, I turn back into my room, with a sensation that is almost fear at my heart. What a cold, unloving kiss! A mere touching of the lips, without warmth or lingering pressure. What if he has ceased to love me?
----
We toil, through pain and wrong, We fight, and fly; We love, we lose, and then, ere long, Stone dead we lie. O life! is all thy song Endure—and die?