She,
too, thought her companion changed. He was older, the circles
beneath his eyes were deeper, the look in their depths more
grave.
"We were such close neighbours to-day, I--I rather thought you'd
call," he stammered. He was uncertain what he was saying--it did
not matter--he was there with her.
"When you're in a circus there isn't much time for calling."
"That's why I've come to call on you." They might have been
sheppherd and sheppherdess on a May-day wooing, for the halting
way in which their words came.
"You're all right?" he went on. "You're happy?"
"Yes, very," she said. Her eyes were downcast.
He did not believe her, the effort in her voice, her drawn, white
face belied her words. How COULD he get the truth from her?
"Jim said you might not want to see me."
She started.
"Has Jim been talking to you?"
"Yes, but I didn't let him stop me, for you told me the day you
left that you'd never change-- toward me. Have you, Poll?" He
studied her, anxiously.
"Why, no, of course not," she said, evasively.
"And you'll be quite frank when I ask you something?"
"Yes, of course." She was growing more and more uneasy. She
glanced about for a way of escape.
"Why did you leave me as you did?"
"I told you then.
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