"The truth! You are very young to begin to talk about the truth."
"Not too young. I am old for my age. I ought to be!" These last words were uttered with a little sigh which roused Roger to action.
"Since we are talking about the truth," he said, "I wonder whether you know a tithe of it."
For an instant she was silent; then, rising slowly to her feet, "What do you mean?" she asked. "Is there any secret in all that you have done for me?" Suddenly she clasped her hands, end eagerly, with a smile, went on: "You said the other day you had a romance. Is it a real romance, Roger? Are you, after all, related to me,—my cousin, my brother?"
He let her stand before him, perplexed and expectant. "It is more of a romance than that."
She slid upon her knees at his feet. "Dear Roger, do tell me," she said. He began to stroke her hair. "You think so much," he answered; "do you never think about the future, the real future, ten years hence?"
"A great deal."
"What do you think?"
She blushed a little, and then he felt that she was drawing confidence from his face. "Promise not to laugh!" she said, half laughing herself. He nodded. "I think about my husband!" she proclaimed. And then, as if she had, after all, been very absurd, and to forestall his laughter, "And about your wife!" she quickly added. "I want dreadfully to see her. Why don't you marry?"
