Have you?"
"No," he said in an altered voice.
"Then--what is it? I have been--you have left me so much alone this
winter--and I supposed I understood--"
"My work," he said; but she scarcely knew the voice for his.
"I know; you have had no time. I know that; I ought to know it by this
time, for I have told myself often enough. And yet--when we _are_
together, it is--it has been--different. Can you tell me why? Do you
think me changed?"
"You must not change," he said.
"No," she breathed, wondering, "I could not--except--a little, as I told
you."
"You must not change--not even that way!" he repeated in a voice so low
she could scarcely hear him--and believed she had misunderstood him.
"I did not hear you," she said faintly. "What did you say to me?"
"I cannot say it again."
She slowly shook her head, not comprehending, and for a while sat
silent, struggling with her own thoughts. Then, suddenly instinct with
the subtle fear which had driven her into speech:
"When I said--said that to you--last summer; when I cried in the
swinging seat there--because I could not answer you--as I wished to--did
_that_ change you, Captain Selwyn?"
"No.
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