"Well, I should, for one," said Bernadette, "if that's of any importance."
She made him laugh again, as she generally could. "I believe I could convince you, if that's the obstacle," he began.
"I don't suppose it is really—not the only one anyhow. Oh, here's the shop!"
She stopped, but did not give him her hand directly. She was smiling, but her eyes seemed large with alarm and apprehension.
"I do wish you'd promise me never to say another word about this." There was no doubt of her almost pitiful sincerity. It made him very remorseful.
"I wish to God I could, Bernadette," he answered.
"You're very strong. You can," she whispered, her face upturned to his.
He shook his head; now her eyes expressed a sort of wonder, as if at something beyond her understanding. "I'm very sorry," he muttered in compunction.
She sighed, but gave him her hand with a friendly smile. "No, don't be unhappy about it—about having told me, I mean. I expect you couldn't help it. Au revoir—in London!"
"Couldn't we dine, or go to the play, or something, to-night?" It was hard to let her out of his sight.