Benis looked at her quickly and looked away. She was certainly paler. She held her head as if its crown of hair were heavy.
"It does not seem wonderful to other people who also—like you."
Her eyes turned to him almost timidly. It hurt him to notice that the old frank openness of glance was gone. Good heavens! was the child afraid of him? Did she think that he blamed her? That he did not understand how helpless she was before her awakening womanhood? He forgot how difficult speech was in the overpowering impulse to reassure her.
"I wish you could be happy; my dear," he said. "You are so young. Can't you be a little patient? Can't you be content as things are—for a while?"
Even Spence, blinded as he was by the bitterness of his own struggle, noticed the strangeness of her look.
"You want things to go on—as they are?"
"Yes. For a time. We had better be quite sure. We do not want a second mistake."
"You see that there has been a mistake?"
"Can I help seeing it, Desire?"
"No, I suppose not.... And when you are sure?" Her voice was very low.