“It’s—you, Phil? I can’t understand——”
“Nor I. I don’t know or care—so long as you are here—close in my arms. I’ll never let you go again. Kiss me, Jane.”
She obeyed, blindly, passionately, the wonder in her eyes dying in heavenly content.
“You came to me, Phil,” she whispered. “How? Why?”
“Because you wanted me, because you were waiting for me. Isn’t it so?”
“Yes, I was waiting for you. I came here because I couldn’t stay away. I—I don’t know why I came—” She paused and her hands tightened on his shoulders again. “Oh, Phil,” she cried again, “there’s no mistake?”
“No—no.”
“You frightened me so. I thought you were—unreal—a vision—your hat, your clothes are the same. I thought you were—the ghost of happiness.”
He kissed her tenderly.
“There are no ghosts, Jane, dear. Not even those of unhappiness,” he murmured. “There is no room for anything in the world but hope and joy—and love—yours and mine. I love you, dearest. Even when reason despaired, I loved you most and loved the pain of it.”