"Dorian, is it you?"
"Sure, in real flesh and blood and rusty-red hair." He tried to force cheerfulness into his words.
"I'm so glad, so glad it's you."
"And I'm glad that you're glad to see me."
"Has he gone? I'm afraid of him."
"Afraid of whom, Carlia?"
"Don't you know? Of course you don't know. I—"
"Sit down here, Carlia." He brought a chair; but she took it nearer the open window, and he pushed up the blind that the cool air might the more freely enter. The sun was nearing the western hills, and the evening sounds from the yard came to them. He drew a chair close to hers, and sat down by her, looking silently into the troubled face.
"I'm a sight," she said, coming back to the common, everyday cares as she tried to get her hair into order.
"No, you're not. Never mind a few stray locks of hair. Never mind that tear-stained face. I have something to tell you."