He did not say any more.
“Women,” she said, “are different from men. I don’t know why I wanted to come—but I did.”
She helped him to another cup of coffee, solicitously.
“Only,” she resumed, “don’t talk about me in the village.” She laughed shakily. “I don’t want my past brought up against me, you know.” And she moved the crumbs on the cloth with her finger-tip.
He looked at her as he drank his coffee; he sucked his moustache, and putting down his cup, said phlegmatically:
“I’ll bet you’ve had a lot of past.”
She looked with a little guiltiness, that flattered him, down at the tablecloth.
“Well,” she said, caressive, “you won’t give me away, who I am, will you?”
“No,” he said, comforting, laughing, “I won’t give you away.”
He was pleased.