"Let us go and walk in the corridor a moment," he said. But they walked there till the alluring melancholy music of the waltz began again. In a mutual caprice, they rejoined the dance. It came into his head to ask, "Who is _he_?" and as he had got past denying himself anything, he asked it. "He? What he?" "He that Mrs. Bowen thought might object to your seeing the Carnival?" "Oh!--oh yes! That was the not impossible he." "Is that all?" "Yes." "Then he's not even the not improbable he?" "No, indeed." They waltzed in silence. Then, "Why did you ask me that?" she murmured. "I don't know. Was it such a strange question?" "I don't know. You ought to." "Yes, if it was wrong, I'm old enough to know better." "You promised not to say 'old' any more." "Then I suppose I mustn't. But you mustn't get me to ignore it, and then laugh at me for it." "Oh!" she reproached him, "you think I could do that?" "You could if it was you who were here with me once before." "Then I know I wasn't." Again they were silent, and it was he who spoke first. "I wish you would tell me why you object to the interdicted topic?" "Because--because I like every time to be perfect in itself." "Oh! And this wouldn't be perfect in itself if I were--not so young as some people?" "I didn't mean that. No; but if you didn't mention it, no one else would think of it or care for it." "Did any one ever accuse you of flattering, Miss Graham?" "Not till now. And you are unjust." "Well, I withdraw the accusation." "And will you ever pretend such a thing again?" "Oh, never!" "Then I have your promise." The talk was light word-play, such as depends upon the talker's own mood for its point or its pointlessness. Between two young people of equal years it might have had meanings to penetrate, to sigh over, to question. Colville found it delicious to be pursued by the ingenuous fervour of this young girl, eager to vindicate her sincerity in prohibiting him from his own ironical depreciation. Apparently, she had a sentimental mission of which he was the object; he was to be convinced that he was unnecessarily morbid; he was to be cheered up, to be kept in heart. "I must believe in you after this," he said, with a smile which his mask hid. "Thanks," she breathed. It seemed to him that her hand closed convulsively upon his in their light clasp. The pressure sent a real pang to his heart. It forced her name from his lips. "Imogene! Ah, I've no right to call you that." "Yes." "From this out I promise to be twenty years younger. But no one is to know it but you. Do you think you will know it? I shouldn't like to keep the secret to myself altogether." "No; I will help you. It shall be _our_ secret." She gave a low laugh of delight. He convinced himself that she had entered into the light spirit of banter in which he believed that he was talking. The music ceased again. He whirled her to the seat where he had left Mrs. Bowen. She was not there, nor the others.