"Call it an appeal—a prayer—not a confession," Severance said. "If I'd ever prayed to God as I'm going to pray to you both, maybe I'd not be in the fix I'm in now."
"One would think you were afraid of us!" quavered Marise.
"I am," he admitted. "I was never in such a blue funk in my life. My legs are like poached eggs without toast."
The girl laughed nervously. "You'd better sit down," she advised.
"I couldn't to save my life. Might as well ask a chap on the rack to sing 'Araby.'"
"You're really frightening us!" Mary's tone was shrill. "Have Bolsheviks blown up your family castles? Have you lost all your money? Aren't you the true heir to the title?"
"I'm the heir right enough," Severance took her seriously. "And I haven't got any money—worth calling money. There's the rub! Marise, you know I love you?"
The girl caught her breath. "Why—sometimes I've thought so."
"You've known it, as well as you know you're alive. If I hadn't come into the beastly title I'd have asked you to marry me long ago. It was your own fault I didn't ask you, before my Cousin Eric died—the first one of the lot to go. You used to snub me every time I tried to speak of marrying. You didn't want to make up your mind!"
"No, honestly, I didn't," she confessed. "I liked you a whole lot, Tony, but—I wasn't quite sure—of either of us, you see, and——"