She was laughing again, silently, inwardly, her head bent.
"Oh, as to that, I'll relieve your anxiety at once," she said at last. "It was to rich a secret to tell too quickly—too good a story—and then the embroideries—I had to think of those. No, I have not told it, John,—not yet. You see, after I left you, I changed my mind about things. Your rural amourette is still a secret, mon ami."
He gasped a sigh of relief. How could he ever have believed it of her?
He laughed lightly with an air of carelessness.
"You wouldn't tell. I knew that. You're not that sort, Olga—"
"Not so fast, my poor friend," she put in quickly. "I've said that your indiscretion was still a secret, but I still reserve the right to tell it here in New York if the humor seizes me."
"Nonsense," he laughed. "I simply don't believe you would."
She shrugged.
"I have told you the truth. I mean what I say. I shall tell what I know, unless—"
She paused. Her moment was not yet.
"Unless?" he questioned.