"Oh, but—" she pouted now. "Oh, but you can help it often—if you like."
"But, you see, I don't like. I should hate myself if I thought that I could."
"Do let me take your glass away for one minute."
"You may do what you please with it, or me."
The glass in eclipse, she looked down at him, considering, hesitating, choosing, poised. "Oh, I was right. You look much nicer without it. Some day I'll tell you."
He took her hand and kept it. "Some day you shall tell me a number of things."
She did not cease to look at him, but he saw fear in her eyes. "Some day, perhaps, but not yet."
"No," said he, "not yet—perhaps."
"Will you trust me?"
"I always have."