The visitor caught his breath. He thought he was prepared for anything; but he was finding his mistake.
"This life you've—selected, is wearing on you," he added. "Frankly, I hardly recognise you, you used to be so careless and happy."
"Frankly," echoed the girl, "you, too, have altered, cousin mine. You're dissipating. Even here one grows to recognise the signs."
The man flushed. It is far easier in this world to give frank criticism than to receive it.
"I won't endeavour to justify myself, Bess," he said intimately, "nor attempt to deny it. There is a reason, however."
"I've noticed," commented his companion, "that there usually is an explanation for everything we do in this life."
"Yes. And in this instance you are the reason, Bess."
"Thank you." A pause. "I suppose I should take that as a compliment."
"You may if you wish. Leastways it's the truth."
The girl locked her fingers over her knees and leaned back against the lintel of the door. She looked very young that moment—and very old.