"I can't help that; I would if I could. But, unfortunately, we are one."
"And you seem to be the one. Suppose I should ask you not to eat humble-pie before your father?"
"Then, of course, I should do as you asked. But I hope you won't."
Maxwell did not say anything, and she went on, tenderly, entreatingly, "And I hope you'll never allow me to deceive myself about anything you do. I should resent it a great deal more than if you had positively deceived me. Will you promise me, if anything sad or bad happens, that you don't want me to know because it will make me unhappy or disagreeable, you'll tell me at once?"
"It won't be necessary. You'll find it out."
"No, do be serious, dearest. I am very serious. Will you?"
"What is the use of asking such a thing as that? It seems to me that I've invited you to a full share of the shame and sorrow that Godolphin has brought upon me."
"Yes, you have," said Louise, thoughtfully. "And you may be sure that I appreciate it. Don't you like to have me share it?"
"Well, I don't know. I might like to get at it first myself."
"Ah, you didn't like my opening Godolphin's letter when it came!"