“Are you in earnest, Jack,—or are you making love to me?”
She asked the question suddenly, catching his hands and holding them firmly together, and looking at him with eyes that were almost fierce. The passion rose in his own, with a dark light, and his face grew pale. Then he laughed nervously.
“I’m only laughing, of course—you see I am. Why must you take a fellow in earnest?”
But there was nothing in his words that jarred upon her. He could not laugh away the truth from his look, for truth it was at that moment, whatever its source.
“I know—I understand,” she said, in a low voice. “We can’t live apart, you and I.”
“It’s like tearing out fingers by the joints every time I leave you,” Ralston answered. “It’s the resurrection of the dead to see you—it’s the glory of heaven to kiss you.”
The words came to his lips ready, rough and strong, and when he had spoken them, hers sealed every one of them upon his own, believing every one of them, and trusting in the strength of him. Then she pushed him away and leaned back in her corner, with half-closed eyes.
“I don’t know why I ever ask if you’re in earnest, dear,” she said. “I know you are. It would kill me to think that you’re playing. Women are always said to be foolish—perhaps it’s in that way—and I’m no better than the rest of them. But you don’t spoil me in that way. You don’t often say it as you did just now.”
“I never loved you as I do now,” said Ralston, simply.
“I feel it.”