"You tell her," said I, quickly. "And of course you will."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"That every secret that must not be told is the same as published
if--if--"

"If _what_?"

"If--if it tells a pretty story with some love in it," I said, with
a quick sense of caution. "Ah, ma'm'selle, do I not know what has
made your lips so red?"

"What may it be?"

"The attrition of many secrets--burning secrets," I said, laughing.

"Mordieu! what charming impudence!" said she, her large eyes
glowing thoughtfully, with some look of surprise. "You do not know
me, m'sieur. I have kept many secrets and know the trick."

"Ah, then I shall ask of you a great favor," said I--"that you keep
my secret also, that you do not tell her of my love."

She wheeled her horse with a merry peal of laughter, hiding her
face, now red as her glove.

"It is too late," said she, "I have written her."