Twice she read the pregnant message.
“I have it,” said she gravely. “To keep—for always.”
“Some day I’ll put it at the head of The Patriot.”
“Why not now?”
“Not ready. I want to be surer; absolutely sure.”
“I’m sure,” she declared superbly; “of you.”
“You make me sure of myself, Io. But there’s Marrineal.”
“Yes; there’s Marrineal. You must have a paper of your own, mustn’t you, Ban, eventually?”
“Perhaps. If I ever get enough money to own it absolutely.”
“Only four years ago,” she murmured, with apparent irrelevancy. “And now—”