“If I said—I love you,” he asked softly, “you who cannot lie—would say—some day I might love you—would you not?”
“When you tell me that in seriousness,” she answered panting, “in seriousness I will reply.”
His beautiful eyes laughed.
“Sophistry,” he said. “Come, is life so long that we may wait years to say what in one moment we know is true—we have not met for nothing—by Heaven, no!”
“Then leave it at that,” faltered Delia. “Say no more—ah, for pity!”
With that gentle little cry it seemed to him that his hand closed over her and that he held her soul, simple and white, as he pictured it to do with as he would.
Thinking so he gave her his strange, vacant look, while she crept away and he fell back into the gloom, surveying her sideways coldly.
The pause, terrible to Delia, was broken by the abrupt entrance of Jerome Caryl.
“Ah,” he said; “I was told you were here.” He glanced at Mr. Wedderburn and his brows went up ever so slightly.
“The password, sir?” he asked, his hand on the door.