"I liked it. You were very nice at Thimble Island, Philidor." She paused a moment. "Then Olga came—and the others. She quite owned you, then, didn't she?"
"No," he replied slowly.
"I don't think I really liked Olga's face-powder on your coat, dear."
He was silent.
"I knew you didn't love her. You couldn't. She wasn't your sort."
More silence.
"You didn't care for her, did you?" jerkily.
He looked down into her eyes tenderly but made no reply. She sighed but asked no more questions. And, when he knew that she understood the meaning of his silence, he took her head between his hands and made her look at him.
"Isn't it enough for me to say to you that I love you better than all the world, dear, that I am yours—wholly and indivisibly—my past, my future—"
"Oh, I am content," she whispered quickly. "Your past—shall be what you have made it. I'm not afraid. But your future—"