"I'm sorry you felt that you could come," continued Andrew. "I've not had much experience of life, and it's not for me to question you. But we've been good friends. I wish it could have remained that way. Young as I am, I've had disappointments—bitter ones. The people I thought I could trust—"
"Andrew!"
She had never called him by his name before. At the word, a curious little thrill stirred in him, and he closed his eyes, his mouth tightening at the corners.
"Forgive me," he added, in a whisper.
"Is it possible," said Mirabelle slowly, "that all this time you—haven't known?"
"I've tried not to know," he answered. "I've tried not to listen to what people said. It has all been so different from anything like that. You've been like the girls I know in my own country, like a comrade, like a chum. I've tried to keep myself from thinking of you in any other light. I've always been glad to be with you: yes, and I'm glad to have you with me now. And yet—I know that we shall both be sorry for this. To-morrow—"
"To-morrow!"
Misunderstanding, she turned to him, and slipped her hand into his. A moment she hesitated, and then bowed her face against his arm.
"Then you do know!" she continued. "Ah, my friend, I have hoped that it would not come to this."
Her voice had suddenly gone wistful. She was the child again, but the child hurt, penitent, and near to tears.