"Here we are, Jill—at home." He closed the doors as he spoke.
"Home?" Jill stared at him. "Peter—I don't understand."
A shade of temper was in her voice as she looked up in his laughing eyes.
"It's the Maramonte palace"—he cried—"Mine!—and yours now, my darling. Where my mother lived ... And all these"—he waved his hand—"are my people."
Jill suddenly caught her breath.
"D'you mean to say"—her voice was tense—"You live here?—that it's ... the house?"
"Yes..." he caught her in his arms. "Aren't you pleased?—It's my 'surprise!'"
But she pushed him away nervously. Wide-eyed she gazed around her. Then, still silent, she crossed the floor, and gazed out of the nearest window.
He followed her, a shade anxious. Surely, she could not be upset?
"Forgive me, Jill ... I ought to have thought..."