Something in his voice terrified her--in the uncanny monologue which meant nothing to her--in his curiously altered laugh--in his intent listening attitude.

It was not the first time she had seen him this way.
"Louis!" she exclaimed; "what are you doing ?" He turned dreamily toward her, rose as in a trance.
"Oh, is it you ?...

Come in here." "I cannot; I am tired." "So am I, Shiela--tired to death.

What time is it ?" "After ten, I think--if that clock is right." She entered, reluctant, uncertain, peering up at the clock; then: "I thought the front door had been left open and came down to lock it.
What are you doing here at this hour?
I--I thought I heard you talking." "I was talking to my father." "What!" she said, startled.
"Pretending to," he added wearily; "sit down." "Do you wish me--" "Yes; sit down." "I--" she looked fearfully at him, hesitated, and slowly seated herself on the arm of a lounge.

"W-what is it you--want, Louis ?" she faltered, every nerve on edge.
"Nothing much; a kindly word or two." "What do you mean?
Have I ever been unkind?
I--I am too unhappy to be unkind to anybody." Suddenly her eyes filled.
"Don't do that," he said; "you are always civil to me--never unkind.