He let his face fall onto the head of the sofa, and shook with emotion. There was a short silence, then Iris, her cheeks flushing, lightly touched his hair. At once he looked up, gazed into her face.
"What! You still believe in me? Enough for that?"
"Yes," replied Iris, her eyes down, and her bosom fluttering. "Enough for that."
"Ah! But be careful—think!" He looked at her with impressive sadness. "Your friends will tell you that you are marrying a penniless adventurer. Have you the courage to face all that kind of thing?"
"I know you better than my friends do," replied Iris, taking in both her own the hand he held to her. "My fear," she added, again dropping her eyes and fluttering, "is that you will some day repent."
"Never! Never! It would be the blackest ingratitude!"
He spoke so fervently that the freckled face became rosy with joy. It was so near to his, that the man in him claimed warmer tribute, and Iris grew rosier still.
"Haven't you always loved me a little?" she whispered.
"If I had only known it!" answered Lashmar, the victor's smile softened with self-reproach. "My ambition has much to answer for. Forgive me, Iris."
"There's something else I must say, dear," she murmured. "After all, I have so little—and there is Len, you know—"