“I am not—­”

Burton stopped short.  The lie of ill-health stuck in his throat.  He thirsted to tell the truth, but a new and gentle kindliness kept him speechless.  Ellen was beginning to get a little frightened.

“What is it that’s come to you, Alfred?” she again demanded.  “Have you lost your tongue or your wits or what?”

“I do not know,” he answered truthfully enough.  His manner was so entirely non-provocative that her resentment for a moment dropped.

“What’s changed you since yesterday?” she persisted.  “What is it that you don’t like about us, anyway?  What do you want us to do?”

Burton sighed.  He would have given a great deal to have been able to prevaricate, but he could not.  It was the truth alone which he could speak.

“I should like you,” he said, “to take down your hair and throw away all that is not real, to wash it until it is its natural color, to brush it hard, and then do it up quite simply, without a net or anything.  Then I should like you to wash your face thoroughly in plain soap and water and never again touch a powder-puff or that nasty red stuff you have on your lips.  I should like you to throw away those fancy blouses with the imitation lace, which are ugly to start with, and which you can’t afford to have washed often enough, and I should like you to buy some plain linen shirts and collars, a black tie, and a blue serge skirt made so that you could walk in it naturally.”

Ellen did not at that moment need any rouge, nor any artificial means of lending brightness to her eyes.  What she really seemed to need was something to keep her still.

“Anything else?” she demanded, unsteadily.

“Some thicker stockings, or, if not thicker, stockings without that open-work stuff about them,” Burton continued earnestly, warming now to his task.  “You see, the open-work places have all spread into little holes, and one can’t help noticing it, especially as your shoes are such a bright yellow.  That stuff that looks like lace at the bottom of your petticoat has got all draggled.  I should cut it off and throw it away.  Then I’d empty all that scent down the drain, and wear any sort of gloves except those kid ones you have had cleaned so often.”

“And my hat?” she asked with trembling lips.  “What about my hat?  Don’t leave that out.”

“Burn it,” he replied eagerly, “feathers and all.  They’ve been dyed, haven’t they? more than once, and I think their present color is their worst.  It must be very uncomfortable to wear, too, with all those pins sticking out of it.  Colored glass they are made of, aren’t they?  They are not pretty, you know.  I’ll buy you a hat, if you like, a plain felt or straw, with just a few flowers.  You’ll look as nice again.”

“Finished?”

He looked at her apprehensively.

“There are one or two things about the house—­” he commenced.

Ellen began to talk—­simply because she was unable to keep silent any longer.  The longer she talked, the more eloquent she became.  When she had finished, Burton had disappeared.  She followed him to the door, and again to the gate.  Her voice was still ringing in his ears as he turned the corner of the street.