He held her closer. "Tell me, Chris!" he said very tenderly.
She uttered a little laugh that had a sob in it. "It's only that—that I can't help feeling that you're making rather a bad bargain. You know, the other day—when—when you proposed to me—I didn't have time to think. I've been thinking since."
"Yes?" he said.
"Yes. And now and then—only now and then—I feel rather bad. I—I like fair play, Trevor. It isn't right for me to take so much and give—so little." Her voice quivered perceptibly, and she ceased to speak. He pressed her closer to him, but he remained silent for several seconds.
At last, "Chris," he said, "will it comfort you to know that what you call a little is to me the greatest thing on earth?"
His voice was deep and very quiet, yet a tremor went through her at his words.
"That's just what frightens me," she said.
"It shouldn't frighten you," he said. "It need not."
"But it does," said Chris.
He was silent for another space, still holding her closely. In the room behind them they could hear the cousins talking; but they were alone together, shut off, as it were, from ordinary converse, alone under the stars.