"Exactly, but how? And I suppose you've always known how to do those corking fine embroideries that the priests are so stuck on? But how did you learn? And how does it come that you look like a dead swell? And where did you get those hands like a saint in a stained-glass window? And that hair? I'll bet you anything you like you're a princess in disguise."
"I'm your princess, dear," she smiled.
"Now for the mystery," he persisted. "Go on, what is it?"
At this her lovely face clouded and her eyes grew sad. "It's not the kind of mystery you think, Lloyd; I—I can't tell you about it very well—because—" She hesitated.
"Don't you worry, little sweetheart. I don't care what it is, I don't care if you're the daughter of a Zulu chief." Then, seeing her distress, he said tenderly: "Is it something you don't understand?"
"That's it," she answered in a low voice, "it's something I don't understand."
"Ah! Something about yourself?"
"Ye-es."
"Does anyone else know it?"
"No, no one could know it, I—I've been afraid to speak of it."