She gave him a little push which was more of a caress than a push, and suddenly caught him back to her. Her eyes were raised now, her arms were about his neck.
“Paul,” she whispered, and both eyes and lips were smiling gravely, “whatever happens to me, my dear, I shall owe you some wonderful months of happiness. Months which I had dreamed of, and which proved more wonderful than any dreams. Thank you, dear one! Thank you a thousand times!”
She kissed him upon the lips and laid her hand upon his cheek and stood apart from him.
“Good-night, Paul.”
Paul Ravenel answered her with a curious smile.
“You might be saying good-bye to me, Marguerite.”
Marguerite shook her head with determination.
“I shall never say good-bye to you, Paul, not even if this very second we were to hear the assassins surging up the stairs,” she said, her eyes glowing softly into his, and a sure faith making her face very beautiful. “We have broken codes and laws, my dear, both of us. But we have both touched, I think, in spite of that, something bigger and finer than we had either of us believed was here to touch. And I don’t believe that—you and I”—she made a little gesture with her hand between herself and him—“the miracle as you called it, of you and me can end just snapped off and incomplete. Why, my dear, even if we go right back to earth, at the very worst, I believe,” she said, with a smile of humour, “some spark of you will kindle some dry tinder of me and make a flame to warm a luckier pair of lovers.”
Paul looked at her in silence.
“You talk to me like that!” he said, at length. “And then you try to persuade me you weren’t worth while.” He turned the moment of emotion with a laugh. “Good-night, Marguerite,” and he went downstairs.