“You are tired,—a little mal de vivre. Isn't it so?”
He said it so kindly that her first impulse of resentment died away.
“How do you know I'm not simply physically out of sorts? I was dancing till four this morning and till three the morning before.”
He smiled with a touch of indulgent superiority.
“As a sailor who knows the sea reads all its moods on its surface, so I read yours in your eyes. Confess. You have been feeling the burthen of life and have not known whence came its heaviness; and you have been longing for relief in the fresh, cool arms of Mother Nature.”
“Perhaps,” she said, looking away from him.
“You are not offended?” he said, after a pause. He had a very musical voice, trained to modulation of feelings. “My heart is always near my lips and at times speaks indiscreetly.”
Ella turned round with a short laugh.
“No, I am not offended. Of course not. But it was scarcely fair to turn me inside out like that without warning.”
Immediately she regretted her confession. His acute perception had half flattered, half frightened her. She felt now that she had yielded some of her ground. She strove to regain it.