“Rubbish!” he said, and then, in a changed voice, “My darling, you will be better soon. I must get you away from here.”
Gently he drew her hands away from her face and lifted them to his lips; the soft palms were wet with tears.
They were standing on the threshold of an inner room. “You can go in here until I have done with Tor di Rocca,” he said. “But first I must tell you that Gertrude has written to me asking me to get a divorce. There is a man, of course, and the case will not be defended. Olive, will you marry me when I am free?”
“Oh, Jean, I—I am so glad.”
“You will marry me then?” he insisted.
“How thin you are, my dear. Just a very nice bag of bones. Were—were you sorry when I came away?”
“You little torment,” he said. “Answer me.”
“Will you marry me?”
“Yes, of course.”