She glanced at the unfinished interview on the desk and sighed.
“How lordly men are,” she said. “Masters of destiny. They do as they please—”
“From what I’ve heard,” he interrupted, “you’ve done pretty much as you please. It’s one of the things I like about you. And what has struck me hard from the first was the way you and I understand each other.”
He broke off and looked at her with burning eyes.
“Well, the ring did one thing for me,” he went on. “It made me acquainted with you. And when you find the one woman, there’s just one thing to do. Take her in your two hands and don’t let go. Come on, let us start for the mountains.”
It had come with the suddenness of a thunder-clap, and yet she felt that she had been expecting it. Her heart was beating up and almost choking her in a strangely delicious way. Here at least was the primitive and the simple with a vengeance. Then, too, it seemed a dream. Such things did not take place in modern newspaper offices. Love could not be made in such fashion; it only so occurred on the stage and in novels.
He had arisen, and was holding out both hands to her.
“I don’t dare,” she said in a whisper, half to herself. “I don’t dare.”
And thereat she was stung by the quick contempt that flashed in his eyes but that swiftly changed to open incredulity.
“You’d dare anything you wanted,” he was saying. “I know that. It’s not a case of dare, but of want. Do you want?”