"Not the years before we met?" Then because she was a woman, she had to spoil the cup. "Nor the years after I go away?"
"No, not the years when you've gone away. You can't take this night with you, nor the other night."
He had hurt her.
"That's enough, then—a memory."
Osmond laughed a little. It was a tender sound, as if he might scold her, but not meaning it.
"You mustn't be naughty," he said. "There's nothing naughtier in a playhouse than saying what isn't true. You know if you go away you'll come back again. You can't help it. It may be a long time first. You were twenty-five years in coming this time. But you'll have to come. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes," she said gravely, "I know that." Then the memory of her wandering life and the sore straits of it voiced itself in one cry, "I don't want to go. I want to stay."
"Stay, dear playmate," said the other voice. "There never will be a night when I'm not here. Is the playhouse key in your hand, all tight and warm? I wear mine round my neck. We shan't lose them."
Immediately she felt that she must tell him her new trouble.
"My father is coming here," she said, in a low tone.