Instantly he released her ... looked at her ... realised.... In those few tempestuous moments he had burnt his boats indeed ...
She met his eyes now, found them too eloquent, and veiled her own.
"No. You are not altogether—a fakir," she said softly.
"I'd no business. I'm sorry ..." he began, answering his own swift compunction, not her remark.
"I'm not—unless you really mean—you are?" Faint raillery gleamed in her eyes. "You did rather overwhelmingly take things for granted. But still ... after that...."
"Yes—after that ... if you really mean it?"
"Well ... what do you think?"
"I simply can't think," he confessed, with transparent honesty. "I hardly know if I'm on my head or my heels. I only know you've bewitched me. I'm infatuated—intoxicated with you. But ... if you do care enough ... to marry me——"
"My dear—Roy—can you doubt it?"
He had never heard her voice so charged with emotion. For all answer, he held her close—with less assurance now—and kissed her again....