At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end,
The delicious story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend;
Over the tea-cups and into the square the tongue has 
                                                                            its desire;
Still waters run deep, my dear, there's never smoke 
                                                                    without fire.

Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on 
                                                                          the links,
Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly 
                                                                               drinks,
Under the look of fatigue the attack of migraine and 
                                                                          the sigh
There is always another story, there is more than 
                                                                 meets the eye.

For the clear voice suddenly singing, high up in the 
                                                                   convent wall,
The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in 
                                                                          the hall,
The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the 
                                                               cough, the kiss,
There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.