“Oh, then, there is something behind!”
“There is,” I admitted.
“Nothing much, I’ll bet my boots. You haven’t it in you to keep a deadly secret.”
“I’m not so sure,” I replied. “For all you know to the contrary, I may deserve the kettle. I heard you talking to Mrs. Potter about truth.”
“Yes, I hope I didn’t put my foot in it? Truth, between you and me and the doorstep, is not her most prominent virtue. Now, you have it written all over your face; you couldn’t tell a lie if you tried.”
“Please don’t hurl these compliments at me,” I protested, “especially as I don’t deserve them. I may not tell a lie—but I might act one!”
“What do you mean?” he demanded, reining up suddenly; and Kip, who had caught us up at last, sat down to pant.
“I do not see why I should explain. You seem to expect me to tell you everything about myself and my affairs as a matter of course. On your side, you divulge nothing.”
“I am not as good at talking as you are and I have but little to say for myself. Possibly, like the parrot, I think the more. Perhaps, some day, I may tell you something that I would never say to another soul. Although you and I have met so seldom, we know one another extraordinarily well, and if there is any truth in the fashionable doctrine of Theosophy, we were united by a close tie in some former existence. Do you know I had that feeling when we passed one another on Slacklands Marsh? Well now, won’t you tell me the great secret?”
“Yes,” I agreed, “but not at present. Do you see,” I continued, pointing over at the stand rendezvous, “everyone is there already!—they are waving what looks like a tablecloth.”