"You remember," she went on, "our evening on the water?"
"I shall not forget it."
"I said then that the time might come when I should be drawn away from you."
"That is impossible," he protested. "I cannot lose you. I shall always know that you are wonderful."
"Will you always think of me like that?" she mournfully wondered.
"You are sacred," said Peter simply. He bent to kiss her fingers, but she drew them sharply back.
"No, Peter," she cried in pain; "I have given your hand away."
Peter stared at her.
"Do you mean," he slowly asked, "that I have no share in you at all?"
"Tell me"—she spoke in a low voice, and her eyes were veiled—"will you hold me sacred"—she shyly quoted his word—"as the wife of another man?"