"I do wish you wouldn't talk about death in that flippant manner," he gibed, wondering how under the sun he might get her out of this gloomy mood.
"But death is in my mind always—Peter. When you have gone through——"
"Romola, I refuse to be lectured."
"Very well; I refuse to talk of anything but love and death."
"Excellent, my own love! Tell me now how it feels when you are in the heavenly condition."
"Most hopeless, Peter; because death, you see, is so close upon the heels of my love."
"Meaning—me?"
"No—my heart. The death of love and the death—of life follow my love. Now I want to pick up the threads of a moment ago. Peter, don't hold my hand. That woman is—staring. You said—you said, you would come away around the world to see me, to help me, possibly, if I were in trouble. You weren't serious."
"Cross my heart!"
"On the Persian Gulf that day—that day I told you something of your recent adventures and your apparently miraculous escapes, I intended to ask you——"