"From _me_?" marvelled John. "_Je suis donc un foudre de guerre?_ What
on earth is she running away from me for?"

Maria Dolores smiled mysteriously.

"Ah," she said, "she asked me not to tell you. I am in the delicate
position of confidante."

"And therefore I hope you'll tell me with the less reluctance," said
John, urbanely unprincipled. "A confidante always betrays her confidence
to some one,--that's the part of the game that makes it worth while."

Maria Dolores' smile deepened.

"In that pale green frock, on that bank of dark-green moss, with her
complexion and her hair,--by Jove, how stunning she is!" thought John,
in a commotion.

"Well," she said, "Annunziata ran away because she didn't want you to
see that she'd been crying."

John raised his eyebrows, the blue eyes under them becoming expressive
of dismay.

"Crying?" he echoed. "The poor little kiddie! What had she been crying
about!"

"That is a long story, and involves some of her peculiar theological
tenets," said Maria Dolores. "But, in a single word, about your
friend."