“I presumed, perhaps too hastily, that you still wanted me, dear,” was what she said.
I dared not look straight at her, for I knew that if I did so my face would be a flaunting proclamation of my worship. I could but say, in a voice that strove for steadiness:
“Beloved, beloved! have you done all this for me?”
A happy mirth came into her voice as she answered:
“No, Paul, not quite all for you! I had to think a little of a certain good man, madly bent on marrying a woman who would, alas! (I know it too well) have made him a most unpleasant wife. George Anderson will never know what I saved him from. But you may, Paul! Aren’t you a little bit afraid?”
I am well aware that in this supreme moment I betrayed no originality whatever. I could only repeat myself, in expressions which I need not set down. Trite as they were, however, she forgave them.
“We have so much to talk about, dear,” she said, “but not now. We must go back to the others; and I must take your cousin Marc aside as I have done with you, so that this won’t look too strange. Does he like me—approve of me?” she asked anxiously.
“Second only to his little Puritan he loves you,” said I. “He knows everything.”
Then, just as we turned back to the others, I whispered in her ear:
“Be prepared for events to-night!”