“I should have enjoyed the trip,” he said. “Still, I'm glad I haven't to go.”
“Do you really mean that you would have come after me?” she asked curiously.
“Of course I should,” he assured her. “Believe me, there isn't such an obstinate person in the world as the man of early middle-age who suddenly discovers the woman he means to marry.”
“But you can't marry me,” she protested.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because I was Oliver Hilditch's wife, for one thing.”
“Look here,” he said, “if you had been Beelzebub's wife, it wouldn't make the least difference to me. You haven't given me much of a chance to tell you so yet, Margaret, but I love you.”
She sat a little forward in her chair. Her eyes were fixed upon his wonderingly.
“But how can you?” she exclaimed. “You know, nothing of me except my associations, and they have been horrible. What is there to love in me? I am a frozen-up woman. Everything is dead here,” she went on, clasping her hand to her heart. “I have no sentiment, no passion, nothing but an animal desire to live my life luxuriously and quickly.”
He smiled confidently. Then, with very little warning, he sank on one knee, drew her face to his, kissed her lips and then her eyes.