"And therefore I hope you'll tell me with the less reluctance," said John, urbanely unprincipled. "A confidante always betrays her confidence to some one,—that's the part of the game that makes it worth while."
Maria Dolores' smile deepened.
"In that pale green frock, on that bank of dark-green moss, with her complexion and her hair,—by Jove, how stunning she is!" thought John, in a commotion.
"Well," she said, "Annunziata ran away because she didn't want you to see that she'd been crying."
John raised his eyebrows, the blue eyes under them becoming expressive of dismay.
"Crying?" he echoed. "The poor little kiddie! What had she been crying about!"
"That is a long story, and involves some of her peculiar theological tenets," said Maria Dolores. "But, in a single word, about your friend."
John's eyebrows descended to their normal level, and drew together.
"Crying about my friend? What friend?" he puzzled.
"Your friend the priest—the man who has been passing the day here with you," explained Maria Dolores.