"Why, I know! I know quite well. Mamsie won't let me say you didn't: but I do say it, all the same. She can't guess why I'm sure. But I know it, all the same. I know it perfectly."
Lettice stooped to kiss him, and was subjected to a bear's hug.
"I shall tell her I'm quite sure, if she says anything again. I'll declare you didn't do it."
"No good, I am afraid. Keith, you'll be a little sorry to have me gone? Just a little! Nobody else minds."
"Father does."
"No; not now. He would have minded—once."
"Father minds!" positively. "Mamsie doesn't. And of course I do. I should just think so. I shall count and count the days till you come back. How long will you be? More than a month! Oh, I say, that's too horrid! . . . Lettice, I've a great mind to tell you something! It's such a shame!—And I don't see why I shouldn't!—Only—you must promise you won't tell anybody else! Not a single person."
"Why?"
"Oh, because I couldn't tell you, without. And I have nobody else to say it to. I want to say it to somebody. Promise, won't you—like a dear old girl!"
She could not withstand the coaxing affectionate manner: and his complaint of "nobody else to say it to," appealed to her own loneliness. The pretty boyish face looked up into hers. "Let me tell you," he entreated. "Do, Lettice. It's so horrid not to have a fellow to speak to; and I shan't when you're gone. Only you've got to promise most faithfully that you'll never say it to anybody else—not to anybody! And more particularly, not to let Mamsie know."