looked up at him:

"Ours?" she asked; but the smile faded once more from eyes and lips; she
suffered him to lead her from canvas to canvas, approved them or
remained silent, and presently turned and glanced toward the small iron
bed. Manner and gaze had become distrait.

"You think this will be comfortable, Duane?" she inquired listlessly.

"Perfectly," he said.

She disengaged her hand from his, walked over to the lounge, turned, and
signed for him to seat himself. Then she dropped to her knees and
settled down on the rug at his feet, laying her soft cheek against his
arm.

"I have some things to tell you," she said in a low voice.

"Very serious things?" he asked, smiling.

"Very."

"All right; I am listening."

"Very serious things," she repeated, gazing through the window, where
green tree-tops swayed in the breezy sunlight; and she pressed her
cheek closer to his arm.

"I have not been very--good," she said.

He looked at her, suppressed the smile that twitched at his mouth, and
waited.

"I wish I could give myself to you as clean and sweet and untainted
as--as you deserve.... I can't; and before we go any further I must tell
you----"

"Why, you blessed child," he exclaimed, half laughing, half serious.
"You are not going to confess to me, are you?"

"Duane, I've got to tell you everything. I couldn't rest unless I was
perfectly honest with you."

"But, dear," he said, a trifle dismayed, "such confidences are not
necessary. Nor am I fit to hear your list of innocent transgressions----"

"Oh, they are not very innocent. Let me tell you; let me cleanse myself
as much as I can. I don't want to have any secrets from you, Duane. I
want to go to you as guiltless as confession can make me. I want to
begin clean. Let me tell you. Couldn't you let me tell you, Duane?"

"And I, dear? Do--do you expect me to tell _you_? Do you expect me to do
as you do?"

She looked up at him surprised; she had expected it. Something in his
face warned her of her own ignorance.

"I don't know very much about men, Duane. Are there things you cannot
say to me?"

"One or two, dear."

"Do you mean until after we are married?"

"Not even then. There is no use in your knowing."

She had never considered that, either.

"But _ought_ I to know, Duane?"

"No," he said miserably, "you ought not."

She sat upright for a few seconds longer, gazing thoughtfully at space,
then pressed her pale face against his knee again