“Yes,” he said, “I have come back to you.”
She glanced at him questioningly, startled by his tone, but before his eager look her eyelids dropped, and a soft glow of color suffused her face.
“Cecil,” he said, “do you remember what you said years ago about men who worked hard to make their fortune and then retired and were miserable because they had nothing to do?”
“Oh yes,” she said, “I remember it very well, and have often seen instances of it.”
“I am like that now,” he continued. “My work seems over, and I stand at the threshold of a new life. It was you who saved me from ruin in my old life—will you be my helper now?”
“Do you think I really could help?” she said wistfully.
He looked at her gentle eyes, at her pure, womanly face, and he knew that his life was in her hands.
“I do not know,” he said gravely. “It depends on whether you could love me—whether you will let me speak of my love for you.”
Then, as he paused, partly because his English words would not come very readily, partly in hope of some sign of encouragement from her, she turned to him with a face which shone with heavenly light.
“There must never be any secrets between us,” she said, speaking quite simply and directly. “I have loved you ever since you first came to us—years ago.”