"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."
"Not half as much as I am."