Just for a second the man stiffened.  The histrionic was too much a part of his life to shake off instantly.  Then he laughed.

“All right, Bess.  I owe you another apology, I suppose.  Anyway be it so.  And now, that I’m to stay—­” A meaning glance through the open door.  “You were working, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead, then, and I’ll find something to sit on and watch.  You remember another morning once before, don’t you—­a morning before you grew up—­”

“Perfectly.”

“We’ll fancy we’re back there again, then.  Come.”

“I am quite deficient in imagination.”

“At least, though, dishes must be washed.”

“Not necessarily—­this moment at least.  They have waited before.”

“But, Bess, on the square, I don’t wish to intrude or interfere.”

“You’re not interfering.  I’ve merely chosen to rest a bit and enjoy the sun.”  She indicated the step.  “Won’t you be seated?  They’re clean, I know.  I scrubbed them this very morning myself.”

The man hesitated.  Then he sat down.

“Bess,” he said, “you’ve been pretty frank with me and I’m going to return the privilege.  I don’t understand you a bit—­the way you are now.  You’ve changed terribly.”

“Changed?  On the contrary I’m very normal.  I’ve been precisely as I am this moment for—­a lifetime.”

“For—­how long, Bess?”

“A lifetime, I think.”

“For four months, you mean.”

“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.”