She indicated a position with a lazy movement of her hand. He obediently sank upon the grass.
“You’re always silent nowadays, when we’re alone,” she complained.
“Am I? I hadn’t noticed that.”
“Then you’re extremely unobservant. Directly we’re alone, you appear to lose the power of speech. You mope and moon, and gaze off at things beyond the horizon, and never open your mouth. One might suppose you had something on your mind. Have you? What is it? Confide it to me, and you can’t think how relieved you’ll feel,” she urged.
“I haven’t anything on my mind,” said he.
“Oh? Ah, then you’re silent with me because I bore you? You find me an uninspiring talk-mate? Thank you,” she bridled.
“You know perfectly well that that’s preposterous nonsense,” answered Will.
“Well, then, what is it? Why do you never talk to me when we’re alone?” she persisted.
“But I do talk to you. I talk too much. Perhaps I’m afraid of boring you,” he said.
“You know perfectly well that that’s a preposterous subterfuge,” said she. “You’ve got something on your mind. You’re keeping something back.” She paused for a second; then, softly, wistfully, “Tell me what it is, Will, please.” And she looked eagerly, pleadingly, into his eyes.