unversed in the ways of women, was crushed by her
changed air. He looked away, racking his brains to hit on what he could
have done to offend her. She glanced at him out of the tail of her eye,
and a wicked little dimple appeared in one cheek. He was sufficiently
punished. She was mollified. But it was so sweet to feel her power over
him, that she could not forbear using it just a little.

"What's the matter?" he asked sullenly.

"Why, nothing!" she said with an indulgent smile, such as she might have
given a small boy.

An intuition told him that in a way it was like dealing with an Indian;
to ask questions would only put him at a disadvantage. He must patiently
wait until the truth came out of itself.

In silence he chose the weapon she was least proof against. She tried to
out-silence him, but soon began to fidget. "You're not very talkative,"
she said at last.

"I only seem to put my foot in it."

"You're very stupid."

"No doubt."

She got up. "I'm going back to bed."

"Sorry, we don't seem to be able to hit it off after supper."

"I'd like to beat you!" she cried with a little gust of passion.

This was more encouraging. "Why?" he asked, grinning.

"You're so dense!"

At last he understood, and a great peace filled him. "Sit down," he said
coaxingly. "Let's be friends. We only have nine days more."

This took her by surprise. She sat. "Why only nine days?"

"When we get out your life will claim you. This little time will seem
like a dream."

She began to see then, and her heart warmed towards him. "Now I
understand what's the matter with you!" she cried. "You think that I am
not myself now; that this me which is talking to you is not the real me,
but a kind of--what do they call it?--a kind of changeling. And that
when we get back to the world, or some day soon, this me will be whisked
away again, and my old self come back and take possession of my body."

"Something like that," he said, with a rueful smile.

"Oh, you hurt me when you talk like that!" she cried. "You are wrong,
quite, quite wrong! This is my ownest self that speaks to you now; that
is--that is your friend, and it will never change! Think a little. What
I have lost is not essential. It is only memory. That is to say, the
baggage that one gradually collects through life; what was impressed on
your mind as a child; what you pick up from watching other people and
from reading books; what people tell you you ought to do; outside i