“No, I know. There is such a wide difference in our stations,” I said regretfully.
“No, it is not that. The reason is one that is my own secret,” was her answer, as she drew her breath and her little hands clenched themselves.
“May I not know it?”
“No—never. It—well, it concerns myself alone.”
“But you still love me, Vivi? You still think of me?” I cried.
“Occasionally.”
And then she turned away in the direction of the hotel.
I followed, and grasping her by the hand, repeated my question.
“My secret is my own,” was all the satisfaction she would give me.