She attempted to smile.
“The gods—” she began.
“No,” he interrupted, knowing in advance what she was about to say, “but here, and here.” He passed his fingers gently over the dark shadows that framed the pitiful eyes.
“Have they not always been so?” she asked, with a pathetic attempt at lightness which did not deceive him.
“No,” he replied, almost vehemently. “When first the gods blessed me with the joy of beholding you, they were not so.”
“Well,” she murmured, tremulously, “I am becoming honorably older. That is all.”
“No, that is not the reason,” he cried, passionately. “A few months could not have wrought the difference, nor the other changes I perceive in your face. The rose is gone. You are pale and too frail. Your lips—ah, I cannot bear it!”
With an exclamation of pain he broke off.
An expression of fright appeared in her face. Her hands clutched about his.
“My lord,” she cried, “you—you do not think that I—that I have ceased to be beautiful?”