before when the King spoke to her. From within the great house came
the entrancingly sweet song of a world-famous soprano engaged to pour
her liquid notes before the King.

Mary Alice stood very still, drinking it in. When it ceased, she stole
a look up at the bronzed face beside her; the light from a window in
her far wing of the house fell full on that rugged face, and it looked
very stern but also very sad. Mary Alice's heart, which had been
exultant only a short while ago, began suddenly--in one of those
strange revulsions which all hearts know--to ache indefinably. This
hour would probably be like those other brief hours in which he had
shared her life. To-morrow, or next day, he would be gone; and forever
and forever the memory of these moments on the terrace, with the stars
overhead and that exquisite song in their ears, would be coming back to
taunt her unbearably.

She made up her mind that before he went out of her life again, she
would tell him the Secret; so that at least, wherever he went, however
far from him the rest of her way through life might lie, they would
always have that thought in common; and whenever it came to help him,
as it must, he would think of her.

Timidly she laid a hand upon his arm. He had been far away, following
the trail of long, long thoughts, and her touch recalled him sharply.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I--I want to tell you the Secret."

"I don't think I want to know," he answered, rather shortly.