"There is one matter I want to speak to you about, Beatrice. It is the matter of—our engagement. I think you are wrong to wish it kept secret. I think it can only bring trouble and misunderstanding. Will you not allow me to tell every one?"
The white satin slipper stopped its regular tattoo on the rugged floor. She lifted her face to his and looked him full in the eyes.
"You think it was foolish and unreasonable to wish no one to know? But I had my reasons—very good reasons. I wanted the retreat kept clear for you."
"Retreat—for me?"
"Yes, for you. Captain Stafford, why did you ask me to be your wife?"
He drew himself stiffly erect.
"I told you at the time," he said sternly. "I was quite honest. I told you that the best a man can bring the woman he marries is not in my power to give you. It was—shipwrecked some time ago."
"Not so very long ago," she corrected.
"That does not matter. The point is that I believe it in my power to make you happy—at any rate, it would always be my ambition to see you so; and therein I should no doubt regain a great deal that I have lost—"
"But you do not love me, Captain Stafford?"