She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise. Her cheeks flushed a dull red. " So there was always plenty of mail. He leaned forward, and looked into the eyes of the woman he loved, and it seemed to him that she sang back to him with a sudden note of something like passion breaking here and there through the gay mocking words which flowed with such effortless and seductive music from her lips. ‘Did it indeed?’ ‘I should think he’s guessed, don’t you?’ ‘Without any doubt at all. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. There was no need of sowing suspicion when he wasn't really certain there were grounds for it. He wanted her named Mary. ” “The truth!” There was a brief but intense silence. She sings better perhaps.
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