"Look in your mirror," I responded.
"Why do you think it necessary," she asked, frowning, "to pay me that kind of compliment?"
"I think it necessary to refrain from doing so, but sometimes I grow forgetful."
She saw that I was very sober again.
"If you meant what you say, it would not be so wicked," she replied, gently.
"You know very well that I mean it."
"Mr. Camwell," she said, leaning very close to me, "we are obliged to lie to outsiders, in the contract we have assumed. Let us always tell the truth to each other."
"If I told you the truth," I responded, gloomily, "you would not sit where you are. You would find strength to walk down those stairs and back to your room alone."
She grew slightly paler, though her cheeks were waxen enough before.
"Then do not tell it to me just now," she replied, with an attempt at a laugh. "I would rather remain on deck where the air is purer."