“I made it up. All. Every bit of it.” She put her hands together in a posture of half-mocking plea. “Please, sir, do I have to tell you the whole shameful story?”
He caught the hands between his. “There’s only one thing you have to tell me, Darcy. Shall I tell you what it is?”
There was no need. The hands stole to his shoulders, and then around his neck. “Oh, I do! I do!” she breathed. “There never was any Veyze, or any engagement, or anything or anybody—but—just—you.”
“But, Darcy, love,” he demanded, holding her close, “why wouldn’t you give me a chance, when we were at Boulder Brook?”
“I—I—I thought it was G-g-g-gloria with you, all the time.”
“You didn’t! How could you miss seeing that I was mad about you from the first? Why didn’t you tell me what you thought?”
With her cheek against his and her lips at his ear, she confessed, between soft, quick catchings of the breath:
“Because I was afraid—of letting you see how much I cared. I—I’ve been such a little fool, Jack, dear. And—and about the Veyze thing—I’m a cheat—and an awful little liar—and—and—and—and a forger, I guess. But it never hurt anybody but myself—and I’ve been loving you all the time—until my heart—almost broke.”
“I’m pretty good at those crimes myself,” returned her lover comfortingly. “And worse. I’ve robbed a mail-box. When did you ever descend to such desperate depths as that?”
“I tried to kill my trainer,” retorted Darcy proudly; “and he’s the best friend I ever had except Gloria. He’s the one that made me presentable.”