"And will you ever pretend such a thing again?"
"Oh, never!"
"Then I have your promise."
The talk was light word-play, such as depends upon the talker's own mood for its point or its pointlessness. Between two young people of equal years it might have had meanings to penetrate, to sigh over, to question. Colville found it delicious to be pursued by the ingenuous fervour of this young girl, eager to vindicate her sincerity in prohibiting him from his own ironical depreciation. Apparently, she had a sentimental mission of which he was the object; he was to be convinced that he was unnecessarily morbid; he was to be cheered up, to be kept in heart.
"I must believe in you after this," he said, with a smile which his mask hid.
"Thanks," she breathed. It seemed to him that her hand closed convulsively upon his in their light clasp.
The pressure sent a real pang to his heart. It forced her name from his lips. "Imogene! Ah, I've no right to call you that."
"Yes."
"From this out I promise to be twenty years younger. But no one is to know it but you. Do you think you will know it? I shouldn't like to keep the secret to myself altogether."
"No; I will help you. It shall be our secret."