He examined her. He discovered she had _experienced_ a change, at any rate. Without his being aware of it, the rose had dwindled and faded to a mere snowdrop; bloom had vanished, flesh wasted; she sat before him drooping, colourless, and thin. But for the soft expression of her brown eyes, the delicate lines of her features, and the flowing abundance of her hair, she would no longer have possessed a claim to the epithet pretty.
"What on earth is the matter with you?" he asked. "What is wrong? How are you ailing?"
No answer; only the brown eyes filled, the faintly-tinted lips trembled.

He examined her. He saw that the rose had faded to a snowdrop; her bloom had vanished, her flesh wasted; she sat before him drooping, colourless, and thin. But for the soft expression of her brown eyes, the delicate lines of her features, and the flowing abundance of her hair, she would no longer have any claim to be called pretty.
"What on earth is the matter with you?" he asked. "How are you ailing?"
No answer; only the brown eyes filled, the pale lips trembled.
