"Perhaps--it's all the same." "Since you did a foolish thing?" "I have done many such." "Since the last, I mean." "No." Just perceptibly the lids over the brown eyes tightened. "The last was when I asked you to sit down. I have not changed in the smallest possible manner since then." The man inspected his boots. "Aren't you, too, going to be seated?" he suggested at length. "Yes, certainly. To tell the truth I thought I was." She took a place beside him. "I had forgotten." They sat so, the man observing her narrowly, in real perplexity. "Bess," he initiated baldly at last, "you're unhappy." "I have not denied it," evenly. 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. "And your reason?" persisted the man. "You know now my explanation for being--as I am. What is yours?" "Do you wish a compliment, also, Clayton Craig?" "I wish to know the reason." "Unfortunately you know it already. Otherwise you would not be here." "You mean it is this lonely life, this man of another race you have married?" "No. I mean the thing that led me away from this life, and--the man you have named." "I don't believe I understand, Bess." "You ought to. You drank me dry once, every drop of confidence I possessed, for two weeks." "You mean I myself am the cause," said the man low. "I repeat you have the compliment--if you consider it such." Again there was silence. Within the stable door, during all the time, the grey wolf had not stirred. He was observing them now, steadily, immovably. Though it was bright sunlight without, against the background of the dark interior his eyes shone as though they were afire. "Honestly, Bess," said the man, low as before, "I'm sorry if I have made you unhappy." "I thought we had decided to be truthful for once," answered a voice. "You're unjust, horribly unjust!" "No. I merely understand you--now. You're not sorry, because otherwise you wouldn't be here. You wouldn't dare to be here--even though my husband were away."