"Oh, no. I'm not. You see, dear, you've really lived up to that bow!"
"I hope," said Peter gently, "I hope I always will."
"I'm not worryin'. And I'm glad I knew you loved me before you knew about the money."
"You did know, then——"
"Yes. What bothered me was your findin' it so hard to tell me so."
Peter was more awkward and self-conscious at that moment than he could ever remember having been in his life. Her frankness shamed him—made it seem difficult for him ever to tell her the real reasons for his hesitation. What chance would the exercise of inherited tradition have in the judgment of this girl who dealt instinctively and intimately with the qualities of the mind and heart, and only with them?
"I—I was not good enough for you," he muttered.
She put her fingers over his lips. And when he kissed them—took them away and gave him her lips.
"I'll hear no more of that, Peter Nichols," she whispered. "You're good enough for me——"
Altogether, it may be said that the evening was a success at every angle from which Peter chose to view it. And he made his way back to the Cabin through the deep forest along the path that Beth had worn, the path to his heart past all the fictitious barriers that custom had built about him. The meddlesome world was not. Here was the novaya jezn that his people had craved and shouted for. He had found it. New life—happiness—with a mate ... his woman—soon to be his wife—whether Beth Nichols or the Grand Duchess Elizabeth...? There was no title of nobility that could make Beth's heart more noble, no pride of lineage that could give her a higher place than that which she already held in his heart.