"Know what, dearest of women?"
"What is going to happen to us, Phil. . . . It seems incredible—after our vows—after the lofty ideals we——"
"The ideals are there," he said in a low voice. And, in his tone there was a buoyancy, a hint of something new to her—something almost decisive, something of protection which began vaguely to thrill her, as though that guard which she had so long mounted over herself might be relieved—the strain relaxed—-the duty left to him.
She laid one hand on his arm, looked up, searching his face, hesitated. A longing to relax the tension of self-discipline came over her—to let him guard them both—to leave all to him—let him fight for them both. It was a longing to find security in the certainty of his self-control, a desire to drift, and let him be responsible, to let him control the irresponsibility within her, the unwisdom, the delicate audacity, latent, mischievous, that needed a reversal of the role of protector and protected to blossom deliciously into the coquetry that she had never dared.
"Are you to be trusted?" she asked innocently.
"Yes, at last. You know it. Even if I——"
"Yes, dear."
She considered him with a new and burning curiosity. It was the feminine in her, wondering, not yet certain, whether it might safely dare.
"I suppose I've made an anchorite out of you," she ventured.
"You can judge," he said, laughing; and had her in his arms again, and kissed her consenting lips and palms, and looked down into the sweet eyes; and she smiled back at him, confident, at rest.