Her breath came in a sob, his voice sounded so kind, so altogether merciful of her, whatever she might do.
"Dreadful things are happening," she said.
"The prince?"
"Not the prince, this time. Worse things."
"Tell me, child."
She had ceased to be altogether his playmate. Deeper needs had called out keener sympathies, and she found some comfort even in his altered tone. She waited for a time, listening to the summer sounds, and vainly wishing she had been a more fortunate woman, and that these sad steps need not be retraced in retrospect before life could go on again.
"You will have to listen to a long story," she said at last. "And how am I to tell you! Ask me questions."
"How far shall I go back?"
"To the beginning—to the beginning of my growing up. Before I met Tom Fulton."
"When you meant to sing?"