He looked at her intently. There was a wistful expression in her eyes. She was paler and thinner, more thoughtful. He gathered his own conclusions from her appearance, aided by certain hints which the family had let fall. He knit his brows in a fierce scowl.
"What's the matter, Glen?"
"My old thoughts are working on me again—that's what it is—your mentioning the old days. They were the best after all, Indiana. Why, people are always raving over sunsets. You should have heard them on the steamer coming over. But once I saw a sunset far off in an orchard in Indiana—there's never been anything to compare with it since—there never will be—to the end of time."
"Sit down, Glen. Tell me all about yourself. You've changed so much for the better, I'm quite bewildered."
"It's worth crossing the ocean to hear that—from you," said Glen, with a superior air. "But I won't sit down here—the place chokes me. I've brought a hansom, and we'll jump in and take a spin about, till it's time to join the folks at dinner."
"I'm not going," said Indiana, without meeting his eyes. "My husband won't let me."
"Your husband won't let you? Poor child—so it's come to this!"
Indiana's pride rose in arms. "Don't waste any sympathy!" she exclaimed, her eyes flashing. "I'm perfectly happy, I assure you."
"Yes, you look it," said Glen, skeptically. "I understand it's a case of jealousy. He's trying to wean you from your own people. I suppose I won't be allowed to see anything of you either. I'm glad they let me in this time, to get one glimpse of you. Next time it will be 'Not at home' or 'Engaged.' I'm very sorry you couldn't come this one night. It'll spoil the evening for all of us, and I had so much to tell you. But I won't keep you. Good-bye."
"Glen!" cried Indiana, clenching her hands and stamping her foot. "How can you act like that? I'm no prisoner. I can go if I want to—but I don't want to."