"It's quite dull, I'm afraid. Only about how I was at home, and then at a convent for a very little while and afterwards at school."
"I'm sure I shouldn't find it dull," said Nicholas Aubray, "I should never find anything dull that was about yourself. I want to hear everything."
His look, straight into her eyes, emphasized his words.
"I should like to feel that you were able to make a real safety-valve of me—tell me anything and everything, quite freely."
Lily's liking for him just then was so strong that the required assurance came in a rush of sincerity.
"I don't think I should mind telling you anything, and I've always wanted a friend. So few people seem to understand——"
A certain recollection, awakened by the words, made her pause.
"Of course there are a few things," she said shyly and wistfully, "that I suppose no one ever puts into words, exactly. Things one knows about oneself, that—that nobody else in the world could be expected to understand——"
"I won't ask for those," gently said Nicholas, smiling at her, rather puzzled.
He was naturally unaware that Lily was thinking just then of a battered wax baby-doll lying at the very back of the wardrobe in her bedroom.