It could not be denied that she was interested in thinking of the effect which her news would create. She saw herself telling it to people.
"Of course I shall announce it as if it was the most ordinary thing," she went on. "You must do the same; say I told you about it. They'll be rather puzzled, won't they?"
"Oh, my dear!" said he, half laughing, half groaning, as he took her hand for a moment and pressed it lightly. "Yes, I daresay they'll be puzzled," he added with a rueful smile.
"We mustn't shew we notice anything of that sort," pursued Ora. "Nobody must see what it is we're really doing. They won't know anything about it." Her eyes fixed themselves on his. "I daresay they'll suspect," she ended. "We can't help that, can we?"
"We must keep our own counsel."
"Yes. If they like to talk, they must, that's all."
She had more to say of this secret of theirs, talked about, guessed at, canvassed, but not fully understood and never betrayed; it was to be something exclusively their own, hidden and sacred, a memory for ever between them, a puzzle to all the rest of the world.
"I daresay they'll guess that we care for one another," she said, "but they'll never know the whole truth. I expect they wouldn't believe in it if they did. They wouldn't think we could do what we're going to."
Not till he prepared to go did her sorrow and desolation again become acutely felt. She held his arms and prayed him not to leave her.
"You must rest a little while and eat something before you go to the theatre," he reminded her.