“As I!” It was a cry of bitterness.
“As you, indeed. I feel between you both what a poor creature I am. I suppose I did for a test. You proved yourselves on me.”
There was silence for a little while. Camelia looked out of the window at the spring evening. It was here they had sat together on that day of their first meeting after her return. Her mind went back to it in all the sorrow of hopeless regret. What had Mary been to her then?
“What more did she say?” she asked at last in a voice of utter sadness. She still looked out of the window, but when he answered, “She said that you loved me,” she looked at him.
“Is that still true, Camelia?” he asked, smiling gravely and with a certain timidity.
“So you know, at last, how much.”
“My darling.” His tone brought the tears to her eyes; they rolled down her cheeks while she said brokenly, “And I told her; I gave her the weapon—and she smiled at us. Oh, that smile!”
“There was triumph in it. She asked me to marry you, Camelia, and I said I would—if you would have me. But, I must not ask you now—must I?” He sat down beside her on the sofa, and kissed her hand.
“Ah, no; don’t think of that. It would kill me, I think, if for one moment I forgot.”
“You need not forget—yet you may be happy, and make me happy.”