“Cis!” he implored, presently, “say what you’re thinking! Don’t keep me outside your thoughts. Why must things always be different?”
She looked at him wonderingly. “Why?” Was it impossible for him to realize all that the years had done? She thought of the girl who had married him, and contrasted her with the woman who sat here now, by the fire, gently stroking the head against her knee. She could either have laughed or cried aloud.
“Because I’m different,” was all she said. “I’ve learned things, and one can’t do away with knowledge.”
“What have you learned?”
“For one thing, what most men mean by love.”
“You don’t doubt that I love you, Cis!” he begged, despairingly.
She hesitated. “It’s so difficult to say anything that won’t make you think I’m really bitter and resentful in my heart,” she began. “And you see, Robin, I’m not. If I were, you would have a better chance of—of what you want me to feel. I didn’t want to discuss this, but you make me.”
“It’s better,” he returned, in a dull voice. “I would rather. Let us at least be honest with each other.”
She began to speak after a moment, hesitating a little, and feeling for the words.
“You see, Robin, when I was lonely and sad, and you saw me every day, I bored you. For nearly two years now you have seen very little of me. I—they say I’ve got pretty again, and people—men like me, and pay me attention, and all that. And now you are ‘in love’ with me again. Oh, yes,” as he made a hurt, protesting sound, “I’m very willing to believe it’s more than just that. But it’s difficult to forget—the other, isn’t it?”