"Of course."
"And by your surroundings you mean—what?"
"You know," she answered in a low voice, turning her face still further away from him.
"Reanda?"
She hesitated for a moment, knowing that her answer must have weight on the man.
"I suppose so," she said at last. "I ought not to say so—ought I? Tell me the truth."
"The truth is, you are unhappy," he answered slowly. "There is no reason why you should not tell me so. Perhaps I might help you, if you would let me."
He almost regretted that he had said so much, little as it was. But she had wished him to say it, and more, also. Still turning from him, she rested her chin in her hand. His face was still, but there was the beginning of an expression in it which she had never seen. Now that the window was shut it was very quiet in the room, and the air was strangely heavy and soft and dim. Now and then the panes rattled a little. Griggs looked at the graceful figure as Gloria sat thinking what she should say. He followed the lines till his eyes rested on what he could see of her averted face. Then he felt something like a sharp, quick blow at his temples, and the blood rose hot to his throat. At the same instant came the bitter little pang he had known long, telling him that she had never loved him and never could.
"Are you really my friend?" she asked softly.
"Yes." The word almost choked him, for there was not room for it and for the rest.