“Tell me, Dorothy,” I asked, after a brief pause, during which I held her soft, slim hand in mine, “who is that young man there—the photograph in the silver frame?” And I pointed to it.
For a moment she did not reply. “That—that!” she gasped, her face blanching as she caught her breath quickly, her lips trembling, her eyes fixed upon me in abject fear. “A friend,” she laughed, falteringly. “Only a friend—no one that you know.”
And her breast rose and fell quickly as she strove to conceal the storm of conflicting emotions that arose within her.
“But I really think you ought to tell me who it is, dearest,” I said. “Now that we are lovers, I surely have a right to know!”
“He is dead,” she cried. “Dead!”
And with trembling fingers she took up the frame and turned it with reverence face towards the wall.
“It is the picture of a dead friend, Paul,” she added. “Need I tell you more than that?” she asked, with an effort.
“What was his name?” I demanded in a low, serious voice.
“His name!” she cried in blank dismay. “No. Paul! I cannot tell you that. I love you—I love you with every fibre of my being, but in this,” she cried, clinging to me with trembling hands, “in this one small matter I beg of you to let me keep my secret. Be generous, and if you really love me let the dead rest.”
“He was your lover.” I blurted forth.