Gwendolyn and I, sitting alone in the old Greek theater one lovely afternoon, had the talk for which I had been watching my chance.
We sat looking out between the time-worn columns at Ætna and the sea.
“I'm tired of ancient history!” said she, closing her guide-book.
“Let's try modern history,” I suggested. “If you will let me be your Baedeker for a minute I should like to point out to you a noble structure in America which is 'clothed in majestic simplicity.'”
“What is it?” she asked, eagerly.
“The character of Richard Forbes,” I answered. “There's one fact in his history of supreme importance to you and me.”
“Only one!” she exclaimed.
“At least one,” I answered. “It is this: for years he has known every unpleasant fact in the story of your father's life.”
“Uncle Soc,” she interrupted, with a look of joy in her face, “is it—is it really true, or are you just saying it to please me?”
“It's really true,” I said. “When I can't help it I tell the truth. I'm never reckless or immoderate in the use of it, for there's no sense in giving it out in chunks so big that they excite suspicion. I'm kind o' careful with the truth when I tell ye that Richard Forbes is better than all the statues and paintings and domes and golden ceilings in Italy.”