John forgot for a moment his own affairs, in his surprise at what Dorothy was saying. Why, he asked himself again, did she care so much about the house-party, and in what way was her future dependent upon it? He looked at her questioningly; his eyes held the interrogation his lips dared not utter.
As Dorothy watched him, and noted his eager interest, she came to the sudden decision to tell him all that she knew of her past. Perhaps he would be able to help her; at any rate, he was too good a friend to betray her confidence.
“John,” she said, in reply to his silent question, “I want to talk to you about myself. Have you time?”
“I certainly have,” replied the young man.
For the next five minutes he listened to one of the strangest experiences he had ever heard. Dorothy’s explanation was different from anything he had imagined, and more pitiful. Never in his life had he so longed to help anyone, and never, he thought, had he been so powerless.
“And may I tell mother?” he asked, when she had finished her story.
“I believe I would rather tell her myself—tomorrow,” replied Dorothy. “For you will want to go and tell her your own news now.”
“That is true,” he said, rising, and extending his hand. “And now goodnight, Dorothy, and goodbye; for I leave early in the morning.”
“Goodbye,” she answered, taking his hand. “And please don’t tell my secret to anyone except ‘the girl,’ will you?”
“I promise,” he said, with sincerity.