She sank down upon the cushions, for her knees had given under her. Paul did not understand the real cause of her distress until she took his hand between both of hers and spoke.
“You needn’t hesitate, my dear. Of course I have always lived in fear that our life together couldn’t go on. In my happiest moments, deep down, I have felt that dread. Perfection’s not allowed, is it? There’s a jealousy that will shatter it. I was sure of that. But I always hoped—not yet. I always prayed for a little longer time to make up for the wretched years before.”
If trouble was mentioned to Marguerite Lambert in those days she had just the one interpretation of the word. It meant separation from Paul and therefore the ending of all things. Her passion occupied her, heart and brain and blood. She had waited for it, curiously certain that she would not be denied it. Now that the great gift was hers, she was in a desperate alarm lest she should wake one morning to discover that it had been filched from her in the night. Paul dropped down upon the cushions at her side and with a tender laugh drew away her hands from her face.
“Marguerite, you are foolish. It isn’t separation, of course. You haven’t to fear that—no, nor ever will have to. Believe me, Marguerite! Look at me and say you believe me!”
He turned her face towards him and held it between his hands and her eyes lost their trouble and smiled at him.
“That’s right. Now listen, Marguerite!”
He gave her a little shake. For since she knew that the one evil which she dreaded was not to befall her she had ceased to attend.
“I am listening, Paul.”
“I dined with a friend of mine to-night. I went there to leave him a letter of instructions about you if anything happened to me on our march down to the coast.”
“Happened to you?” she exclaimed with a sharp intake of her breath.