“I did not mean to imply that he is my superior because he is a swell,” he observes rather haughtily, “but the very point of which you speak is the very one that makes his superiority, probably, in your eyes.”
“In my eyes!” she answers in amazement. “Oh, Carl, I am sorry you should give me credit for such things. I don’t think that kind of superiority worth anything—anything!” she goes on scornfully. “I don’t think that money and position and all that sort of thing makes people really happy!”
“Everyone in Town thinks you mean to make the experiment, anyhow!” he replies.
“But you didn’t. Surely you didn’t, Carl! You know I don’t care for Lord Delaval—and that I love you!” she whispers, les larmes au voix.
He looks down at her sweet downcast face. It is a face bathed in blushes. For Zai always blushes when she tells him all that is in her heart. But she need say nothing. He has only to look at her face, which tells its story of love with exceeding clearness and sweetness to his vain, incense-loving eyes.
“Zai! do you really love me so very much?”
He asks the question from sheer selfishness and a desire for incense to his overweening vanity. He knows he has sought this opportunity to tell her something which will break her heart. But no—hearts are tough things, and do not break easily. But something which will surely wreck her implicit child-like faith in the fidelity and sincerity of all men. Never after to-night will Zai Beranger perhaps feel that loving words and honest words are twins. Rather she will shrink from them, knowing that they may be uttered only to betray.
Now she believes in Carlton Conway with her whole soul. And when he asks:
“Zai! do you really love me so very much?”
She lets both white arms form a circle for his neck, and woos him to touch her red lips.