'I believe you mesmerise me,' she replied, trying to jest, 'and forgetting bills doesn't help to pay them; does it, Dan?'
'So you are back at the money again. Well, I don't care. Money or no money; promotion or no promotion----'
'No! no!' she interrupted, yielding, as she always did, to his decision, 'that really is not fair--the bargain was promotion--it was indeed.'
'Promotion be it,' he assented with a contented laugh, 'though I can't for the life of me see what it has got to do with the matter.'
'You would at least have more pay,' she put in, wondering faintly the while how it came about that they should be discussing such questions when she had meant to be so firm. 'I could not marry a pauper; could I?'
'Indeed, and indeed, it might be the best thing for you; then nobody would give you credit, dear, but me. And I--Oh, Gwen, my dear, my dear,--you might be bereft of everything--of all, save your own self, and sure I would give you credit for the all, still. Credit!' he echoed to his own words, 'isn't it absurd to be talking of it, as if either of us could be debtor or creditor to the other.'
That was all she gained from the interview. That, and the unwelcome remembrance of full five minutes when the touch of her lover's hand and the sound of his voice had made her forget the world, the flesh, and the devil.
But not for long. As she sat after Dan had gone, trying to comfort herself by the fact that one never knew what might happen, that they might all be dead and buried before the necessity for action arose--which, by the way, was her favourite consolation--she looked up to see the servant standing at the door, doubtfully expectant.
'What is it?' she asked languidly.
'The vakeel of the Diwâns of Hodinuggur, Huzoor. He hath brought an offering, and desires an audience.'