“I was alarmed about you. I was afraid you might be ill,” I explained. I felt a great rush of relief, of warmth and peace, at seeing her. She was seated in a low easy-chair, by her writing-table, with a volume of the “Récit d’une Sour” open in her lap. “No, I’m not ill,” she said, rising, and putting her book aside. “I’m not sorry you thought so, though, since it has procured me the pleasure of a visit from you,” she added, smiling, as she gave me her hand. But her face was pale, her smile seemed like a pale light that just flickered on it for an instant, and went out. I looked at her with anxiety. “You are ill,” I said. “There’s something the matter. What is it? Tell me.” “No, no. Really. I’m all right,” she insisted, with a little movement of the head, that was meant to be reassuring. “Sit down, and light a cigarette, and give me a true and faithful account of the day’s doings. Who was there?” “I don’t know. You weren’t. That was the important thing. We missed you awfully. Your absence entirely spoiled the afternoon,” I declared. She raised her eyebrows. “I can imagine how they must all have pined for me. Did they commission you to speak for them?” “Well, I pined for you, at any rate,” I said. “I kept looking for you, expecting you. Every minute, up to the very end, I still hoped for you. If you’re not ill, or anything, why didn’t you come?” “Vanity. I was having a plain day, I didn’t like to show myself.” I looked at her with anxiety, narrowly. “I say,” I blurted out, “what’s the use of beating about the bush? I know there’s something wrong. I should have to be blind not to see it. If you’re not ill, then you’re unhappy about something. I can’t help it—if you don’t like my speaking of it, send me away. But I can’t sit here and talk small-talk, when I know that you’re unhappy.” “If you know that I’m unhappy, you might sit here and talk small-talk, to cheer me up,” she suggested. “You—you’ve been crying,” I exclaimed, all at once understanding an odd brightness in her eyes. “Well, and even so? Hasn’t one a right to cry, if it amuses one?” she questioned. “What have you been crying about?” questioned I. “I’ve been crying over my faded beauty—because I’ve had a plain day.” “Oh, I wish you wouldn’t try to turn the matter to a jest,” I pleaded. “I can’t bear to think of you crying. I can’t bear to think of you unhappy. What is it? I wish you’d tell me.” “Do you really wish it?” she asked, with a sudden approach to gravity. “Yes—yes,” I answered eagerly. “If you’re unhappy, I want to know it, I want to share it with you. You’re so good, you’re so dear, I wish I could take every pain in the world away from you, I wish I could protect you from every breath of pain.” Her eyes softened beautifully, they shone into mine with a beautiful gentleness. “You’re a dear boy,” she said. “You’re a great comfort to your grandmother.” “Well, then,” I urged, “the least you can do is to tell me what has happened to make my grandmother unhappy.”