"Something has happened—this morning, has it not?" she asked.
I nodded.
"Yes."
She waited for me to go on. She was deeply interested. I could hear her breath coming fast, though we were walking at a snail's pace. I longed to confide in her absolutely, but I dared not.
"Do not ask me to tell you what it was," I said. "The knowledge would only perplex and be a burden to you. It is all the time like poison in my brain."
We were walking very close together. I felt her fingers suddenly upon my arm and her soft breath upon my cheek.
"But if you do not tell me everything—how can you expect my sympathy, perhaps my help?"
"I may not ask you for either," I answered sadly. "The knowledge of some things must remain between your father and myself."
"Between my father—and yourself!" she repeated.
I was silent, and then we both started apart. Behind us we could hear the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching, soft quick footsteps, muffled and almost noiseless upon the spongy turf. We stood still.