"I know how ungrateful I must seem." She spoke without looking at him. "I have no right to refuse anything after all you——"
"Don't say that," he interrupted impatiently. "That's the one thing I shall never like to think of."
"I shall think of it always, and be glad to remember it——"
"Come nearer—give me your hand——"
Holding it, he drew her against his side, and they stood in silence looking upon the Seine, now dark beneath the clouding night.
"I can't feel sure of you," fell at length from Hilliard.
"I promise——"
"Yes; here, now, in Paris. But when you are back in that hell——"
"What difference can it make in me? It can't change what I feel now. You have altered all my life, my thoughts about everything. When I look back, I don't know myself. You were right; I must have been suffering from an illness that affected my mind. It seems impossible that I could ever have done such things. I ought to tell you. Do you wish me to tell you everything?"
Hilliard spoke no answer, but he pressed her hand more tightly in his own.