That evening they found themselves alone in a deep-recessed window facing the dimly-lighted street.
"Opal," said Paul, "do you know why I have come to New Orleans? Can't you imagine, dear?"
She instantly divined the tenor of his thoughts, and shook her head in a tremor of sudden fright.
"I have come to tell you that I have fought it all out and that I cannot live without you. Though I am breaking my plighted troth, I ask you to become my wife!"
Her eyes glistened with a strange lustre.
"Oh, Paul! Paul!" she murmured, faintly. "Why did you not say this before—or—why do you tell me now?"
"Because now I know I love you more than all the world—more than my duty—more than my life! Is that enough?"
And Paul was about to break into a torrent of passionate appeal, when Gilbert Ledoux joined them and, shortly after, Mrs. Ledoux called Opal to her side.
Opal looked miserably unhappy. Why was she not rejoicing? Paul knew that she loved him. Nothing could ever make him doubt that. As he stood wondering, idly exchanging platitudes with his genial host, Mrs. Ledoux spoke in a tone of ringing emphasis that lingered in Paul's ears all the rest of his life, "I think, Opal, it is time to share our secret!"
And then, as the girl's face paled, and her frail form trembled with the force of her emotion, her mother hastened to add, "Gentlemen, you will rejoice with us that our daughter was last week formally betrothed to the Count de Roannes!"