“And then—you may forget it—but I can’t. I repeat—I’m a pauper. I’ve lost Flood. I’ve lost everything that I could once have given you. I’ve got about four thousand pounds left—just enough to start me at the bar—when I’ve paid for the Orpheus. And I can’t take a farthing from my mother or the other children. I should be just living upon you. How do I know that I shall get on at the bar?”
Connie smiled; but her lips trembled.
“Do think it over,” he implored; and he walked away from her again, as though to leave her free.
There was a silence. He turned anxiously to look at her.
“I seem”—said Connie, in a low voice that shook—“to have kissed somebody—for nothing.”
That was the last stroke. He came back to her, and knelt beside her, murmuring inarticulate things. With a sigh of relief, Connie subsided upon his shoulder, conscious through all her emotion of the dear strangeness of the man’s coat against her cheek. But presently, she drew herself away, and looked him in the eyes, while her own swam.
“I love you”—she said deliberately—“because—well, first because I love you!—that’s the only good reason, isn’t it; and then, because you’re so sorry. And I’m sorry too. We’ve both got to make up—we’re going to make up all we can.” Her sweet face darkened. “Oh, Douglas, it’ll take the two of us—and even then we can’t do it! But we’ll help each other.”
And stooping she kissed him gently, lingeringly, on the brow. It was a kiss of consecration.
A few minutes more, and then, with the Eighth Prelude swaying and dancing round them, they went hand in hand down the long approach to the music-room.