"Miscalculated them?"
Lillie began to tremble violently.
"Yes, there is a fallacy in your ratiocination."
"A fallacy!" she whispered hoarsely.
"Yes, you have calculated on the theory that the probabilities are independent, whereas they are interdependent. In the algebra of love this is the typical class of probabilities. The two events—your falling in love with me, my falling in love with you—are related; they are not absolutely isolated phenomena as you have superficially assumed. It is our common qualities which make us gravitate together, and what makes me love you is the same thing that makes you love me. Thus the odds against our loving each other are immensely less than you have ciphered out."
Lillie had fallen back, huddled up, in her corner of the carriage, her face covered with her hands.
"Forgive me," said Lord Silverdale penitently. "I had no right to correct your mathematics on your wedding-day. Say two and two are six and I will make it so."
"Two and two are not six and you know it," said Lillie firmly, raising her wet face. "It is I who have to ask forgiveness for being so cruel to you. But if I have sinned, I have sinned in ignorance. You will believe that, dearest?"
"I believe anything that comes from my Rainbow's lips," said Lord Silverdale. "Why, they are quite white! Let me kiss them rosy again."
Like a naughty child that has been chastened by affliction she held up her face obediently to meet his. The lips were already blushing.