“And she loves you.”
“I have thought it—sometimes,” said Perior, looking away.
“She has always loved you. You too have misjudged Camelia. She told me—last night—she told me that you had rejected her.”
“Did she, Mary?” Perior looked down at the hand in his.
“Yes—through love of me. You understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“It brought us together,” said Mary, closing her eyes again.
She lay so long without speaking that Perior thought she must, in her weakness, have fallen asleep, but at last she said, the words wavering, for her breath was very shallow, “That is what Camelia needed. Some one—to love—a great deal——” And with an intentness, like the last leap of a dying flame, she added, looking at him, “You will marry Camelia.”
“If Camelia will have me,” said Perior, bending over her hand and kissing it.
A gleam of gaiety, of pure joyousness, shone on Mary’s face. Humorously, without a shadow of bitterness, she said, “I win—where Camelia failed!”