"Not he! If he had loved you he would not, for his own pleasure, have run any risk of giving you this trouble. What did I say? Love is selfish, love wounds——"
"You wound me. You are selfish."
"I am. I love you. You seemed to belong to me that first hour I saw you. I will not give you up."
"If you really loved me, if you were really noble, you would save Harry without any conditions."
"Perhaps. I am not really noble. I can't trust such fine sentiments. They will lead, I know not where, only away from you. I tell you plainly, I will save the young fellow's life, if it be possible, on condition that you promise to marry me."
"I am not eighteen years old yet."
"I will wait any reasonable time."
"Till the end of the war?"
"Yes, provided it is over when you are twenty-one."
She pondered this answer, looking up covertly a moment at the handsome, determined face watching her. Three years held innumerable possibilities. It was a period very far away. Lord Medway might have ceased to love her before it was over; he might have fallen in love with some other girl. He might die; she might die; the wide Atlantic ocean might be between them. The chances were many in her favor. She remained silent, considering them, and Medway watched with a curious devotion the expressions flitting across her face.