"Could you tell me why?"
She slowly shook her head: "You will learn why, some day."
"Is there no chance, Thusis?"
Again she shook her head. Presently her hand slipped out of mine and she rested both elbows on her knees, covering her face.
I dropped onto the couch near her, framing my own head in both hands.
The world had become sunless and quite empty except for human pain.... And so, thought I in a dull sort of way, this ends my romance with The Laughing Girl.... The Laughing Girl of Naxos..... Not laughing now, but very much subdued, brooding beside me with both hands covering her face, and the splendid masses of her hair now loosened to her shoulders like a hood hiding the bowed features.
"Don't grieve, Thusis," I whispered, forgetting my own pain; but she suddenly huddled up and doubled over, crying:
"If you speak to me that way I—can't—endure it——" Her voice broke childishly for the first time, and I saw her shoulders quiver.
We had a rotten time of it—self-restraint on my side, and on hers—a hard, sharp shower of tears—terrifying to me because of her silence; not a sigh, not a sob, not even one of those undignified gulps which authors never mention—but which nevertheless usually characterize all lachrymose feminine procedure, and punctuate its more attractive silences.
It resembled a natural rainstorm in April—abrupt, thorough; and then the sun. For after considerable blind fumbling, she suddenly leaned forward and dried her eyes with the edge of the bed-sheet.