“Bertie,” she said, timidly. “Don’t be angry with me if I ask you something.”
“I warned you not to ask questions.”
“Yes, I know, but I’m not going to do anything to bother you. I promise that, and you know I always keep my word. Only, if you would tell me about things, it would be easier than hearing it from others, or from the papers. But suppose,” she was watching his face intently, to see if its expression permitted her to go on, “suppose,” she said, timidly, “you were to grow tired of her, and wanted her, for your sake, to give you your freedom. Do you think she’d love you enough to do what I have done?”
A curious smile came suddenly to his face:
“Do what you have done?” he said. “I think she’d probe for my heart with a polished stiletto sooner, or put a spider into my dumpling!”
“Then she loves herself better than she loves you—and I love you better than I love myself!”
She said these words with an infinite satisfaction, and the expression of her face was triumphant—almost happy. Her cheeks had still that feverish color, and her eyes were wide and brilliant, as they rested with a hungry, expectant look upon his face. He, meantime, sat silent, looking into the fire. When, at last, compelled by her steady gaze, he looked at her, there was such dumb, intense entreaty in her eyes as he could not misunderstand.
“Mim,” he said, in a whisper, “do you want me to kiss you?”
The tears sprang to her eyes. “If you wouldn’t mind—just once,” she answered.
Their lips met in a long kiss. As he drew backward from it, he put her gently from him, and rose to his feet.