He can be dangerously winning when he pleases. It pleased him to be so then—perhaps to try his power over her. The result is quite satisfactory. The rich color leaps to her cheeks, the light of joy flashes into her deep, dark eyes, the low-breathed answer is freighted with emotion.
"I thank you more than I can express for your kindness," she answers, earnestly. "You make me very happy."
"Then, while you are in that pleasant mood, there is something I must ask you," he ventures.
"Yes?" She flashes him a bright, swift look of inquiry.
He is silent for a moment. He has an air of confusion that does not sit ill upon him.
"Reine," he says, "it was all a mistake, your traveling under your maiden name. It—it places you in a false position."
"No one knows aught of us here—it cannot matter," she replies, with a blush, and quickly-drawn breath.
He studies the beautiful face attentively. How fair, how young, how lovely it is. How sweet the heart-shaped, crimson lips, how long and dark the lashes that droop against her cheeks. How luxuriant and long the silken tresses that float like a banner on the fresh morning breeze. And she loves him; some strange, sweet thrill strikes through him whenever he recalls the truth she had owned with such pathetic frankness.
"I have acted badly—no one realizes that fact more than I do," he continues, gravely; "but, Reine that is past. I am your husband; you are my wife, shall we let bygones be bygones and begin again?"
"You mean——" she says, giving him a little wondering look.