“Oh, but do tell me.”
Roland was firm.
“No; I’m jolly well not going to. It’s her secret. You don’t want to meet her, do you?”
“No,” Brewster grudgingly admitted; “but I’d like to know.”
“I daresay you would, but I’m not going to give away a confidence. Suppose you told me that you were keen on a girl and that you’d heard she wouldn’t have anything to do with anyone, you wouldn’t like me to go and tell her who you were, would you?” “No.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. That’s the sort of thing one keeps to oneself.”
“Yes; but as I shall never see her——”
Roland adopted in reply the stern tone of admonition, “Of course not; but if I told you, you’d take jolly good care that you did see her, and then you’d tell someone else. You’d point her out and say, ‘That girl wanted me to come out for a walk with her.’ You know you would, and of course the other fellow would promise not to tell anyone and of course he would. It would be round the whole place in a week, and think how the poor girl would feel being laughed at by everyone because a fellow that was four years younger than herself wouldn’t have anything to do with her.”
“What! Four years older than me?”
“About that.”