“What is the matter, Pluma?” he asked, in wonder.
“Nothing,” she replied, keeping her eyes fastened as if fascinated on the offending daisies he wore on his breast.
“I left you an hour ago smiling and happy. I find you white and worn. There are strange lights in your eyes like the slumbrous fire of a volcano; even your voice seems to have lost its tenderness. What is it, Pluma?”
She raised her dark, proud face to his. There was a strange story written on it, but he could not tell what it was.
“It––it is nothing. The day is warm, and I am tired, that is all.”
“You are not like the same Pluma who kissed me when I was going away,” he persisted. “Since I left this house something has come between you and me. What is it, Pluma?”
She looked up to him with a proud gesture that was infinitely charming.
“Is anything likely to come between us?” she asked.
“No; not that I know of,” he answered, growing more and more puzzled.
“Then why imagine it?” she asked.