"Always proud, always independent, always keeping her guard up." He cast a questioning side glance at her face, grave and pale by his shoulder. "You wild thing, can no one tame you?"
"Why do you say I'm wild?"
"Because you are. How long have I known you? Since early in September and
I don't get any nearer. You still keep me guessing."
"About what?"
"About what?" He leaned down and spied at her profile. "About yourself."
"Oh, me!"
"Yes, you—what else? You're the most secretive little sphinx outside Egypt."
She did not answer for a moment. She had been secretive, but it was about the humble surroundings of her youth, those ignominious beginnings of hers. Of this she could not bring herself to tell, fearful that it would lower her in his esteem. She saw him, hearing of the Buon Gusto restaurant and the life along the desert, withdrawing from her in shocked repugnance. About other things—the stage, the lovers—she had been frank, almost confidential.
"I don't see why you say that," she protested; "I've told you any amount of stuff."
"But not everything. You know that, Pancha."