"That makes it worse than ever," replied Glen, seriously. "We sympathize with you, in the other case, but now we must have the pride not to beg when you turn upon us. Good night!"
This was more than Indiana could bear. "Glen, I'll go!" she exclaimed, desperately.
He came back slowly into the room, his eyes shining with joy. "Will you, Indiana?"
"Just sit down and I'll slip into a dress. I shan't be long, Glen."
"Yes."
"We'll have a good time, altogether, this one night." Her resolve, once taken, she threw scruples to the wind. Glen, walking restlessly up and down the room after she had gone to dress, spied her photograph on a cabinet. First looking suspiciously around him, he took possession of it and kissed it passionately.
"Poor little thing," he murmured, gazing on the photograph, and seating himself in a comfortable position, his feet on the table. "Now the first blaze of glory is over, and you find—you're in for life—what are you going to do, little western bobolink, with your wings clipped, and your little eyes peering over the cruel ocean? Oh, you'll never complain—you're too proud." He let the photograph fall, and buried his face in his hands.
Indiana rang for her maid, and dressed in feverish haste. She wished to leave the house without coming in contact again with Thurston. Slipping quietly down the stairs, she saw a light in his den. The door was not quite closed, and she peeped through the crack. He was sitting at his table, reading, in a patient attitude, his head propped on his hand. She passed the door, then, moved by a sudden impulse, went back and looked at him again. There was something which appealed to her in the solitary figure sitting there, in a pose so passive as to almost suggest hopelessness. She noticed the touch of gray in his hair, under the lamplight—that, too, appealed to her. She felt vaguely that his was not the face of a happy man, and also, in a vague sense, her conscience reproached her for being responsible. She remembered they had always been together since their marriage. Neither had taken any pleasure apart. She would have liked to have kissed him good-night, and gone with his sanction—but, she told herself, that would be impossible to gain. With an involuntary sigh she sped down to the library. Glen was still sitting, his face buried in his hands. The photograph had fallen on the floor.
"Here I am, Glen," throwing her white wrap in his lap. "It's not necessary to ask you how I look. I've completely stunned you." He looked at her with worshipping eyes. She had donned an airy, diaphanous white gown, and her cheeks were glowing, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "You've been looking at my new photo. Do you like it?"
"Oh, so-so," he answered, indifferently.