"Could you—if there were?"
But she remained silent, disturbed, troubled once more by the light weight of his hand over hers which seemed to be awaking again the new senses that his touch had discovered so long ago—and which had slumbered in her ever since. Was this acquiescence, this listless relaxation, this lassitude which was becoming almost painful—or sweet—she did not understand which—was this also a part of friendship? Was it a part of anything intellectual, spiritual, worthy?—this deepening emotion which, no longer vague and undefined, was threatening her pulses, her even breathing—menacing the delicate nerves in her hand so that already they had begun to warn her, quivering——
She withdrew her hand, sharply, and straightened her shoulders with a little quick indrawn breath.
"I've got to tell you something," she said abruptly—scarcely knowing what she was saying.
"What, Strelsa?"
"I'm going to marry Langly Sprowl. I've said I would."
Perhaps he had expected it. For a few moments the smile on his face became fixed and white, then he said, cheerfully:
"I'm going to fight for you all the same."
"What!" she exclaimed, crisply.
"Fight hard, too," he added. "I'm on my mettle at last."