"Allie, are you ever going to cheer up?" he demanded.
"No--no," she sighed.
He put his hand under her chin, and, forcing her face up, studied it
earnestly. Strained, white, bloodless, thin, with drooping lips and
tragic eyes, it was not a beautiful, not even a pretty face. But it
might have been one--very easily. The veiled, mournful eyes did not
evade his; indeed, they appeared to stare deeply, hopelessly,
yearningly. If he could only say and do the right thing to kill that
melancholia. She needed to be made to live. Suddenly he had the
impulse to kiss her. That, no doubt, was owing to the proximity of
her lips. But he must not kiss her. She might care for him some day
--it was natural to imagine she would. But she did not care now, and
that made kisses impossible.
"You just won't cheer up?" he went on.
"No--no."
"But you were so different out there by the brook."
She made no reply. The veil grew darker, more shadowy, over her
eyes. Neale divined a deadness in her.
"I'm going away," he said, sharply.
"Yes."
"Do you care?" He went on, with greater intensity.
She only stared at him.
"You MUST care!" he exclaimed.
"Why?" she asked, dully,
"Why! ... Because--because--" he stammered, angry with himself. After
all, why should she care?
"I wish--you'd--left me--to die!" she moaned.
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