“What do you wish to tell her?” she faltered.
“That I am going to be her nephew,” he answered, with the utmost composure.
“No—no—no,” bursting into a half-hysterical laugh, “you must give me time—I want to think it over.”
“Honor,” coming close to her, and resolutely taking her trembling hand in his, “can you not think it over now? Will you marry me?”
Although her fingers shook in his hold, she held herself nervously erect, as she stood looking out over the moon-flooded mountains in silence, her eyes fixed on the far-away horizon with the gaze of one lost in meditation. She was crowding many thoughts into the space of seconds. Among them this—
“The gloved hand in which hers was imprisoned, how strong and steadfast—a brave hand to guide and support and defend her through life.”
At last, with tremulous nervous abruptness, she made this totally irrelevant and unexpected remark—
“I wonder what people will say when they hear what a dreadful impostor you have been! Of course, I know what they will say of me—that I have guessed the truth all along—and have played my cards beautifully! Oh, I can hear them saying it!”
And she hastily withdrew her fingers, and looked at him with a mixture of defiance and dismay.
“You think more of what people will say than of me, Honor!” he exclaimed reproachfully.