Marguerite shook her head.
“But there is—oh, not at once! But I am warned, Paul. There’s the light showing on the reef. I keep my course at more than my peril.”
Paul went back upon his words and his looks. What could he have said, he who so watched himself?
“And this warning?” he asked, with a smile, making light of it.
“We dare not quarrel,” she answered, slowly. “That human natural thing is barred from us. The sharp words flashing out, the shrug of impatience, the few tears perhaps from me, the silent hour of sulkiness in you, the making-up, the tenderness and remorse—these things are for other lovers, Paul, never, my dear, for you and me. We daren’t quarrel. We must watch ourselves night and day lest we do! For if we did, the unforgivable word might be spoken. I might fling my debt to you in your face. I might be reminded of it, anyway. No, we must live in a constraint. Other lovers can quarrel and love no less. Not you and I—a man who has given his honour and career, and a woman who has taken them!”
The argument silenced Paul Ravenel, for there was no disputing it. How daintily the pair of them had minced amongst words! With what terror of a catastrophe if the tongue slipped!
“So . . . ?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Marguerite, with a nod. “So! So, Paul, let us stake all on one splendid throw! Go down if we must, but if we do, in a fine endeavour, and perhaps, after all, win out to the open street!”
She spoke with a ring in her voice which Paul had not heard for a long while.
“How?” he asked, and the light leaped in his eyes. So much hung upon the answer.