"You do love me, Lady Fair, don't you?" he almost pleaded. "You must love me, knowing as you do all that I have given up for you." He pointed to a heap of carelessly-tossed letters upon desk-top. "Do you see those?" he demanded. "The first from Washington—the President—demanding my resignation. Following that, curt requests that I withdraw from positions of trust that I held. My wife crushed—my child disgraced—my friends gone—! God in heaven! What haven't I given you, Lady Fair!"
"I thank you," she responded, most graciously, bending low, "And I have given you what? Myself. Is that less than a fair exchange?"
"Not if I may keep that self mine, and mine alone, for all time. But may
I?"
"Can you doubt it?" she queried, with a lifting of arched brows.
"There was Parmalee—"
"A silly boy. I never cared for him!"
"And Rogers—"
"Interesting—only interesting—and only at first. Then tiresome!"
"And Seward Van Dam."
"Next to you, a man," she cried. "But like you, insanely jealous, and unreasonable."