Quita sat upright at last, on the spare corner of her husband's chair, flushed, smiling, and not a little tremulous. Stumbling-blocks and limitations loomed again on the horizon. But for the present she would have none of them. Eldred was not angry. He wanted her—supremely:—how supremely, his lips had just been telling her in language more primitive, more forcible than speech.
And now he lay merely watching her, still retaining her hands, drinking in the penetrating charm of her, as a parched traveller drinks at a roadside spring.
"Well?" he asked presently. "After all that—what next? There's the rub."
"Need we spoil these first heavenly moments together by looking for rocks ahead, mon cher? Captain Desmond begged me to keep the 'worry element' at arm's-length."
"Dear old Desmond! He's made of gold. But now that you are here, you've got to be explained. And there's only one way to explain you—Mrs Lenox!"
Her face quivered.
"Eldred, I won't be explained . . that way, unless . . you really wish it. Only Mrs Olliver and Major Wyndham know about me: and now I've seen you, and feel sure there's no more danger, I can easily go back to Dalhousie and stay there, till you . . till you're more ready for me."
"Can you though?" He pressed her hands. "And do you believe I am capable of packing you off to-morrow?"
"I don't know. I think you'd prefer not to. But I believe you are capable of doing anything, once you're convinced it's right."
"Dearest, indeed I'm not." He spoke with sudden vehemence. "If I were, we might be clear of this unholy tangle by now. But since you've honoured me by plunging into hell fire on my account, I can't let you go again . . . yet."