Renée came and stood in the light of the blaze, that made a Rembrandt picture of her. She watched the dancing, leaping flames. She smiled, turned grave, then smiled again, and presently caught sight of the serious face watching her.
“What is it?” she asked, dropping down on a log, fur-covered for a stool.
“Renée, I wonder if you would like to go away and visit wonderful, beautiful countries, where people have books and pictures and fine houses, and where there are elegant men and women——”
“Why? Are you going?”
She took the rather rough hand in hers, soft as velvet, and gazed at him out of surprised eyes.
“Would you like to go?” studying her lovely face.
“Not without you,” gravely.
“But if some one younger and handsome, well-informed, accustomed to a more refined life, should care for you, should want to take you, should——”
“Oh, what is it you mean? And who is it? And I could not go unless”—her face was scarlet—“unless he married me, I know that. And there is no one I would marry. Do you think I would go away and leave you, when I love you so, when you wanted me and no one else did? Why, I would not marry a king!” and she clasped her arms about his neck.
Then a sudden knowledge flashed over her. She recalled last evening.