“If you love me, Joyce, give me your lips. I want the very breath of your spirit. I didn’t know it, dear, till to-day, but always, always my soul has been yours.”
She hesitated. The colour stole back into her pale cheeks. She sought his eyes, delving deep into their honest, clear depths. He met the challenge of that searching glance, holding his head erect.
She smiled and kissed him.
Presently, holding her hand, he asked tenderly:
“Why were you crying? What has happened?”
She answered simply:
“Mr. Moxon asked me to marry him. I like him so much, Lionel. I felt so sorry for him. Then he went away. I knew that he would come back, because, being the man he is, so strong and clever, he couldn’t believe what I said to him. It was my fault. My ‘no’ sounded, I dare say, weak and unconvincing. This afternoon he asked me again. I knew that father wanted it. I—I thought—I—I was so sure that you were utterly beyond me, somebody else’s——”
“Heavens! You accepted him!”
“Very nearly, not quite. If I had——! It was a dreadful ordeal for both of us. I told him that I didn’t love him. He said he would make me. He pleaded desperately. At last I escaped. I ran here—here where we played as children, where we have talked together so often, where I read your letters. And then, I gave way. I cried—for you. And God had pity on me, and sent you.”