He accepted this comforting doctrine unquestioningly. Her serene acceptance of the situation, without one wrinkle in her placid brow to indicate that any future problems annoyed her, did not arouse his wonderment or cause him to question the depths of her emotions; it only added one more element to the unreality of the entire affair.
Moon and music, silver sea and glorious night, and a maid who had been, in his secret thoughts, his dream of the unattainable!
“Will you wait for me—wait till I can make something of myself?” he demanded.
“You are yourself—right now—that's enough!”
“But the future. I must—”
“Love me—love me now—that's all we need to ask. The future will take care of itself when the time comes! Haven't you read about the great loves? How they just forgot the whole petty world? What has love to do with business and money and bargains? Love in its place—business in its place! And our love will be our secret until—”
He pardoned her indefiniteness, for when she paused and hesitated she pressed her lips to his, and that assurance was enough for him.
“Yes—oh yes—Miss Alma!” called a man's voice in the singsong of eager summons.
“It's Arthur,” she said, with snap of impatience in her voice. “Why won't people let me alone?”
He released her, and she stood at arm's-length, her hands against his breast. “I have thought—It seemed to me,” he stammered, “that he—Forgive me, but I have loved you so! I couldn't bear to think—think that he—”