"Naughty," she shrilled. "You mustn't flirt! If you do, I'll write to your honey and tell him what you are doing. You see if I don't. And then he'll come and catch you at it, and where will you be then?" With a mirthless cackle, she vanished into the palm-room, where there was light and the tinkle of glasses and the bubbling of champagne.
"Half-past eleven," said Miss Ward dully. "Thirty minutes more."
The war correspondent caught his breath as if he had been suddenly hurt. "One little hour," he answered, his voice low and tense with suppressed feeling. "Only one little hour to last us for all eternity, and we're wasting it like this. I love you, I love you, I love you! I love you with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my strength, and with all my will. I love you so much that heaven would be hell without you, and hell itself would be heaven if you were there. I love you with a love that will not die, when I do. I love you, do you understand? God knows I love you!"
She turned her face towards him thrilled to the depths of her soul. "And I," she breathed, caught in the whirlwind of his emotion, "love you—in just that way!"
His hands closed quickly over hers. "Then," he pleaded, "come. There are no barriers between us—they are nothing but cobwebs. Sweep them aside with one stroke of magnificent daring and come. We'll be married in the morning and sail for New York immediately, then go abroad for a year. Two telegrams will set you free, and explain everything! Come," he whispered, "only come! Youth and love, and the wide world before us! We'll be together till death divides us! Come—promise me you'll come!"
In thought she surrendered for an instant, then broke away from him, shuddering. "Don't," she gasped. "Don't make it so hard for me to do what is right. I won't be dishonourable, I won't be disloyal, I won't be untrue. Happiness that comes from wrong doing is always brief, but, oh, dear lad, I love you with a love nobody ever had before, or ever will have again. I'm not taking anything away from anybody else to give to you, so it isn't dishonourable—it can't be. Tell me it isn't!" she cried. "Oh, tell me."
"It isn't," he assured her. "You couldn't be dishonourable if you tried. You're the bravest, finest woman I've ever known."
From within came the notes of a violin muted. The piano, mercifully softened, followed the melody with the full rich accompaniment which even miserable playing can never wholly spoil.
"The hours I spent with thee, dear heart,
Are as a string of pearls to me;
I count them o'er, every one apart—
My rosary! My rosary!"
"The pearls mean tears," she whispered brokenly. "Our rosary is made of tears!"