The remark was elicited from her in simple surprise. She looked up at Roland.
"Yes, one of mine. But for bringing you to the fate of Gerald's wife, I'd marry you tomorrow, Annabel."
In spite of the matter-of-fact, earnest tone in which he spoke, almost as if he were asserting he'd take a voyage in the clouds but for its impossibility, Annabel was covered with confusion.
"Some one else's consent would have to be obtained to that bargain," she said in a hesitating, lame kind of way, as she bent her head low over a tangle in the red sewing-silk.
"Some one else's consent! You don't mean to say you'd not marry me, Annabel!"
"I don't say I would."
Roland looked fierce. "You couldn't perjure yourself; you couldn't, Annabel; don't you know what you always said--that you'd be my wife?"
"But I was only a senseless little child then."
"I don't care if you were. I mean it to be carried out. Why, Annabel, who else in the world, but you, do you suppose I'd marry?"
Annabel did not say. Her fingers were working quickly to finish the curtain.