"The clouds are lifting," he said. "Listen. If there is no one else, tell me, why there shouldn't be the slightest chance for me? I am not clever, I am nobody of any account, but I care for you so wonderfully. I love you, I always shall love you, more than any one else could. I never understood before, but I understand now. Just this caring means so much."
She stood close to his side. Her manner at the same time seemed to depress him and yet to fill him with hope.
"What is your name?" she enquired.
"Richard Lane," he told her. "I am an American."
"Then, Mr. Richard Lane," she continued softly, "I shall always think of you and think of to-night and think of what you have said, and perhaps I shall be a little sorry that what you have asked me cannot be."
"Cannot?" he muttered.
She shook her head almost sadly.
"Some day," she went on, "as soon as our stay in Monte Carlo is finished, if you like, I will write and tell you the real reason, in case you do not find it out before."
He was silent, looking downwards to where the gathering wind was driving the clouds before it, to where the lights grew clearer and clearer at every moment.
"Does it matter," he asked abruptly, "that I am rich—very rich?"