"About what?"

"About _what_?" He leaned down and spied at her profile. "About
yourself."

"Oh, me!"

"Yes, you--what else? You're the most secretive little sphinx
outside Egypt."

She did not answer for a moment. She _had_ been secretive, but it was
about the humble surroundings of her youth, those ignominious beginnings
of hers. Of this she could not bring herself to tell, fearful that it
would lower her in his esteem. She saw him, hearing of the Buon Gusto
restaurant and the life along the desert, withdrawing from her in shocked
repugnance. About other things--the stage, the lovers--she had been
frank, almost confidential.

"I don't see why you say that," she protested; "I've told you any amount
of stuff."

"But not everything. You know that, Pancha."

He was now so keen, like a dog with its nose to the scent, that he forgot
her recent refusal and hooked his hand inside her arm. This time she did
not draw away and they walked on, close-linked, alone in the moonlit
street. Conscious of her reticences, ashamed of her lack of candor, and
yet afraid to make damaging revelations, she said defensively:

"I've told you as much as I want to tell."