At last the man spoke, and the girl gave a queer little motion of relief.
"I should like to tell you everything there is to know about me," he said
in his careful, foreign English. "But--will you forgive me?--I do not
feel myself able to do so--yet. Some day I will answer your question
gladly--I hope some day soon--if you are kind enough to continue to
extend to me your interest and your friendship."
He looked down into Hilary's uplifted face with a queer wistfulness that
struck unexpectedly straight to her heart. She felt suddenly that this
man's past contained something of loss and disappointment of which he
could not lightly speak to a mere casual acquaintance.
With the quickness of impulse characteristic of her, she smiled
sympathetic comprehension.
"And you won't even tell me your name?" she said.
He bent again to the pole, and she saw his teeth shine in the moonlight.
"I think my friend told you one of my names," he said.
"Oh, it's much too commonplace," she protested. "Quite half the men
I know are called Jack."
And then for the first time she heard him laugh--a low, exultant laugh
that sent the blood in a sudden rush to her cheeks.
"Shall we go back now?" she suggested, turning her face away.
He obeyed her instantly, and the punt began to glide back through the
ripples.
No further word passed between them till, as they neared the house-boat,
the high, keen notes of a flute floated out upon the tender silence.
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