"Shall we talk? Shall I play to you? Shall I draw you a picture? What shall we do, Jack?"
"Well, Phil, I think—perhaps—we had better talk."
Something in his voice struck her; she looked at him sharply.
"What has happened, Jack? You do not look happy."
"Nothing, Phil—nothing but what I might have expected." But he looked so dismal that it was quite certain he had not expected it.
"Tell me, Jack."
He shook his head.
"Jack, what is the good of being friends if you won't tell me what makes you unhappy?"
"I don't know how to tell you, Phil. I don't see a way to begin."
"Sit down, and begin somehow." She placed him comfortably in the largest chair in the room, and then she stood in front of him, and looked in his face with compassionate eyes. The sight of those deep-brown orbs, so full of light and pity, smote her lover with a kind of madness. "What is it makes people unhappy? Are you ill?"