"Still, for better or worse you will be Mrs. Gilbert Lisle?"
"Yes—some day," faltered the young lady.
"I know I am not half as fascinating, nor a quarter as good-looking as Quentin; honestly, what do you see in me, Helen?"
"Do you expect me to pander to your conceit, and to make you pretty speeches?" she asked with rather a saucy smile.
"Indeed I do not; all the pretty speeches, of course, should come from me. I only want to hear the truth," he returned, looking at her with his steady dark eyes.
"Well, then, since you must know, and you seem generally to have your own way, I will try and tell you. Somehow, from the first—yes, the very first—I was sure that you were a person that I could trust; and ever since that time on the wreck——" she paused.
"Yes," he repeated, "ever since that time on the wreck?—go on, Helen."
"I have felt that—that—I would not be afraid to go through anything with you, to—to spend my life with you. There!" becoming crimson, she added, "I know I have said too much, far too much," clasping her hands together nervously.
A look more eloquent than words illumined Lisle's face.
"And you would give yourself to me in this blind confidence? Helen, I little dreamt when I came down here rather aimlessly, that in these unknown islands, I should find such a pearl beyond price. You cannot understand what it is to me, to feel that I am valued for myself, simply as Gilbert Lisle, poor, obscure, and—" he paused, his voice sounded rather husky, and then he went on, "I must see your father to-night. But how? I left him at billiards. I wonder what he will say to me?"