“But you won’t tell me things, and I am just dying with curiosity,—righteous curiosity. And I am going on a nice, nice journey with you, and I won’t cry any more, and will do everything you want me to, and won’t you tell me everything about myself?”
He smiled amiably and fatuously, and occupied himself by gently caressing his moustache.
“Once I was very obdurate,” she went on. “I said: ‘He is altogether too reserved; I shall never, never like him till he tells me everything he knows.’ Now don’t you think the time has come?”
She stood with her head on one side like a demure and fascinating robin, and her husband helplessly surveyed the door. If he could escape while there was yet time, this coaxing humour would pass away. But she would be too clever for him. He saw himself, simpleton, weak-minded idiot, and various other despised names in his vocabulary, wheedled into a seat, the inquisitive robin perched close beside him, reluctant secrets falling from his lips.
Nina was intently watching him, and her demure smile was turning to a proud one. “Go,” she said, pointing to the door, “I have changed my mind. I do not wish to know your secrets.”
He hesitated, and stared helplessly at her.
“Or,” she said, “I will make my demand for them from a change of basis. I am going to be a good wife to you—just as good as I know how. You have borne a great many burdens alone. I ask for my share of them.”
“Nina!” he said, rapturously.
“I may not come up to your expectations,” she said, wistfully; “but I will try.”
He suppressed his exultation, and sat down soberly beside her. “I beg your pardon, darling; I have the fullest confidence in you. I will tell you anything you choose to ask.”