There is this
deception between me and everything."
At that word "deception," spoken with such
self-contempt, the color flashed back into
Hilda's face as suddenly as if she had been
struck by a whiplash. She bit her lip
and looked down at her hands, which were
clasped tightly in front of her.
"Could you--could you sit down and talk
about it quietly, Bartley, as if I were
a friend, and not some one who had to be defied?"
He dropped back heavily into his chair by
the fire. "It was myself I was defying, Hilda.
I have thought about it until I am worn out."
He looked at her and his haggard face softened.
He put out his hand toward her as he looked away
again into the fire.
She crept across to him, drawing her
stool after her. "When did you first begin to
feel like this, Bartley?"
"After the very first. The first was--
sort of in play, wasn't it?"
Hilda's face quivered, but she whispered:
"Yes, I think it must have been. But why didn't
you tell me when you were here in the summer?"
Alexander groaned. "I meant to, but somehow
I couldn't. We had only a few days,
and your new play was just on, and you were so happy."
"Yes, I was happy, wasn't I?" She pressed
his hand gently in gratitude.
"Weren't you happy then, at all?"
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath,
as if to draw in again the fragrance of
those days. Something of their troubling
sweetness came back to Alexander, too.
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