There was a little silence. He bowed his head and touched with his lips the slender fingers that rested lightly upon his own joined hands. He felt that she trembled at the touch.
"What is to be my fate, Cynthia? I put my life into your hands. I owe it to your father and to you."
"What do you want it to be?" she asked softly, but with an effort of which he was profoundly conscious and ashamed.
"Oh, my love, my only love, you know what I desire!" he said, with sudden passion; and for the first time he raised his head and looked into her face. "I dare not ask—I am not worthy! If there is anything that you can bear to say—to give me—you must do it of your own free will; I cannot ask you for anything."
"But you know," said Cynthia, looking at him at last, and letting, the gleam of a smile appear through the tears that filled her eyes, "a woman likes to be asked."
And then, when their eyes had once met, their lips met too, and there was no need for him to ask her anything.
But, when there was no longer any need, he found it easier to ask questions.
"Cynthia, my darling, do you love me?"
"With my whole heart, Hubert!"
"And will you—will you really—be—my wife?"