“So do I,” answered Dorothy. “But this isn’t unfair. I never asked you to tell me anything about yourself.”
“That’s the worst of it. That’s what makes it so mean and ugly and unfair for me to go on in this way. Why should you be so good to me when you don’t know anything about me?”
“Why, because, although I do not know your history, I know you. If it is painful for you to tell me about yourself—”
“It wouldn’t be painful,” the girl answered, with an absent, meditative look in her eyes. But she added nothing to the sentence. She merely caressed Dorothy’s hand. After a little silence, she suddenly asked:—
“What’s a ‘parole,’ Dorothy?”
Dorothy explained, but the explanation did not seem to satisfy.
“What does it mean? How much does it include? How long does it last?”
Dorothy again explained. Then Evelyn said:—
“It was a parole I took. I don’t know what or how much it bound me not to tell. I wish I could make that out.”