More pairs of eyes in that art class were fixed on the obviously guilty couple in the corner than on the beautiful cloudy objects in the cases, and it was not until they had all followed their guide to the armor-room, and had grouped themselves about the casque of Joan of Arc, that Wayne went on as if no interruption had occurred:
“If you want to know whether I have ever experienced anything like my feeling for you since the first moment I saw you, I never have and never shall, and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
Mathilde turned her full face toward him, shedding gratitude and affection as a lamp sheds light before she answered:
“You were terribly unkind to me yesterday.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I shall never forget the way you kissed me, as if I were a rather repulsive piece of wood.”
Pete craned his neck, and met the suspicious eye of a guard.
“I don’t think anything can be done about it at the moment,” he said; and added in explanation, “You see, I felt as if you had suddenly deserted me.”
“Pete, I couldn’t ever desert you—unless I committed suicide.”
Presently he stood up, declaring that this was not the fitting place for arranging the details of their marriage.