She looked down for a moment, and when she looked up again she was her usual friendly, frank self. “Well then, why do you talk in that disillusioned way? It isn’t a bit like you.”
I was silent. Then, taking a wild leap in the dark, I tried to be equally frank, whatever the consequences.
“Natalie, I know it isn’t like me. It isn’t even a real side of me. But I had to do it to-day, as I have had to do it before. There is a real and vital reason. And that is all I can tell you. Do you believe me?”
She looked up, laughing. Then, as her eyes met mine, her smile faded into a look of wonder. “Do you really mean that?” she demanded.
“I really mean just that,” I assured her earnestly; “and I really mean that I simply cannot tell you any more than that.”
“But—but—why, that is absurd. Why can’t you be yourself?”
I shook my head despairingly. “Natalie, I have told you the truth. I don’t lie much anyway; and our friendship means far too much to me for me to lie to you of all people. But I cannot tell you any more than that!”
She stared at me for a moment or two, and then I realized for the first time, perhaps, what a really wonderful girl she was. For her hand went out impulsively to my sleeve and the eyes she raised to mine were full of sincerity. “I believe you, then,” she said simply, “and your reason does not matter.”
I must have let some of my appreciation show in my eyes, for she flushed a delicious pink and dropped her own quickly. I leaned a little nearer to her: “And you see I can still be very, very glad about something!” I told her.
She changed the subject rather hastily.