"Alas, if I could only tell you." She was laughing at him now—an experience he did not relish. "But—my lips are sealed, as we say on the stage. I can only give you the hint. You thought you left me a broken vanquished woman. How the thought did pain you! Well, your victory was not absolute. Let that thought console you."
"You are too kind," Minot answered.
"And—you are glad I am not leaving San Marco quite beaten?"
"Oh, yes—I'm wild with pleasure."
"Really—that is sweet of you. I am so sorry we must part. The moonlight, the palms, the distant music—all so romantic. But—we shall meet again?"
"I don't know."
"Don't know? How unkind—when it all depends on you. You will look me up in New York, won't you? New York is not so romantic—but I shall try to make it up to you. I shall sing for you. Just a Little."
She stood up, and held out a slim white hand.
"Good-by, Mr. Minot." Still she laughed. "It has been so good to know you."
"Er—good-by," said Minot. He took the hand. He heard her humming beneath her breath—humming Just a Little. "I've enjoyed your singing immensely."