“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.”

Again instinctively the man’s face reddened.  It was decidedly a novelty in his life to be treated as he was being treated this day.  Ordinarily glib of speech, for some reason in the face of this newfound emotionless characterisation, he had nothing to say.  It is difficult to appear what one is not in the blaze of one’s own fireside.  It was impossible under the scrutiny of this wide-eyed girl, with the recollection of events gone by.

“All right, Bess,” he admitted at last, with an effort, “we’ve got other things more interesting than myself to discuss anyway.”  He looked at her openly, significantly.  “Your own self, for instance.”

“Yes?”

“I’m listening.  Tell me everything.”

“You really fancy I will after—­the past?”

“Yes.”

“And why, please?”

“You’ve already told me why.”

“That’s right,” meditatively.  “I’d forgotten.  We were going to be ourselves, our natural worst selves, to-day.”

“I’m still listening.”

“You’re patient.  What do you most wish to know?”

“Most?  The thing most essential, of course.  Do you love your husband?  You’re unhappy, I know.  Is that the reason?”