“Not now,” she said.
Her tone was conventional enough, but in her face he read—and he was sure that she had meant him to read—a something deeper.
He put it to her flatly: “When?”
She was looking now at the fresh green leaves above them. When she looked down, she was still smiling, but her smile was wistful.
“When dreams come true, perhaps,” she said. “Do dreams ever come true in the American United States, monsieur?”
The spell of the Spring was dangerously upon them both. Cartaret’s breath came quickly.
“I wish—I wish that you were franker with me,” he said.
“But am I ever anything except frank?”
“You’re—I know I haven’t any right to expect your confidence: you scarcely know me. But why won’t you tell me even where you come from and who you are?”