"Yes; but I cannot tell you what, just now."
"Cannot tell me! and why?"
"Because I cannot. I can give no other reason. It is nothing of import to you, or you are sure I should not keep it from you."
"Yes; but I am equally sure that anything that concerns you is of import to me. To whom should you tell anything, if not to me? I do not like concealment, Beatrice."
His tone was grave; indeed, too much like reproof to a fractious child to suit Beatrice's pride. She drew away from him.
"Nor I. You must think but meanly of me if you can impute anything like concealment to me."
"How can I do otherwise? You tell me you have been annoyed, and refuse to say how, and by whom. Is that anything but concealment? If any one has offended or insulted you, I ought to be the first you came to. A woman, Beatrice, should have nothing hidden from the man who is, or will be, her husband."
She threw her arms around him. Her moods were variable as a child's. Perhaps this very variability Earlscourt hardly understood, for it was utterly opposed to his own character: you always found him the same; she would be all storm one moment, all sunshine the next.
"Do you suppose I would hide anything from you? Do you think for a moment I would hold back anything you had a right to know? You might look into my heart; there would be no thought or feeling there I should wish to keep from you. But if you exact confidence, so do I. Would you think of taking as your wife one you could not trust?"
He answered her a little sternly: