"That's a long story. I don't feel like telling about it now."
But the mere suggestion had opened certain doors in her memory and crowds of sad and bitter thoughts came trooping in.
"Are you in some sort of trouble?" said he, instantly leaning toward her across the table and all aglow with the impulsive sympathy that kindles in impressionable natures as quickly as fire in dry grass. Such natures are as perfect conductors of emotion as platinum is of heat—instantly absorbing it, instantly throwing it off, to return to their normal and metallic chill—and capacity for receptiveness. "Anything you can tell me about?"
"Oh, no—nothing especial," replied she. "Just loneliness and a feeling of—of discouragement." Strongly, "Just a mood. I'm never really discouraged. Something always turns up."
"Please tell me what happened after I left you at that wretched hotel."
"I can't," she said. "At least, not now."
"There is——" He looked sympathetically at her, as if to assure her that he would understand, no matter what she might confess. "There is—someone?"
"No. I'm all alone. I'm—free." It was not in the least degree an instinct for deception that made her then convey an impression of there having been no one. She was simply obeying her innate reticence that was part of her unusual self-unconsciousness.
"And you're not worried about—about money matters?" he asked. "You see, I'm enough older and more experienced to give me excuse for asking. Besides, unless a woman has money, she doesn't find it easy to get on."
"I've enough for the present," she assured him, and the stimulus of the champagne made her look—and feel—much more self-confident than she really was. "More than I've ever had before. So I'm not worried. When anyone has been through what I have they aren't so scared about the future."