She is lying on his breast. He can feel her heart beating against his. His arms tighten round her.
"Tita, you love me!" whispers he, in a low tone, passionately.
She feels so small a thing in his embrace—a mere child of fourteen might be a bigger thing than she is. The knowledge that she has grown very thin during their estrangement goes to his heart like a knife. Oh, dear little, darling girl!
"You must love me—you must," says he, holding her to him, as if he could never let her go. "Try to love me, Tita."
Slowly, very slowly, she stirs within his arms. She looks up at him. It is such a strange look. It transfigures the beautiful little face, making it even more beautiful than it was before. But Maurice, who is hanging on it, to whom it means life or death, does not dare translate the expression. It seems to him that she is going into all that intolerable past and reading his very soul. God grant she may read it aright!
The strain grows too terrible; he breaks it.
"My darling, speak!" entreats he.
She wakes as if from a dream.
"Oh, I love you—I do love you!" cries she. She lays her hands against his breast, and leans back from him. "I have loved you always, I think; but now I know it. Oh, Maurice, love me too, and not her—not her!"
* * * * *