She drew her hands away from him and buried her face.
"Oh, I don't love you a little at all," she said, half-chokingly. "I love you a great, great deal. I know the truth now."
Then he took her in his arms and drew her tight against his heart. When her lips were close to his ear, she spoke again:
"I knew it the moment you said you had written that paper. I loved whoever wrote that, already—but it wasn't that. I knew I loved you because it made me so unhappy, so wretched, for that minute when I thought maybe you had written those words to some one else you loved—and then you couldn't love me."
"Let me tell you," he whispered back: "'Some one else' never existed. There never was anyone that could command the first emotion of love from me until you came. But, like many a foolish creature, I have loved an ideal, tenderly, faithfully, abidingly, and to her these passionate words were written. Now do you think me irretrievably silly? Can you ever respect me again?"
For answer, she told him her own little story, and even got out the cocked hat and sword and blue velvet coat, and showed them to him, in a happy glee. He made an effort to take them from her and put them on; but she prevented him, indignantly.
"You shall not!" she exclaimed; "I should be ashamed of you! A fine time you'd have wrapping plaster bandages, with those ridiculous lace ruffles! Oh, I like you a thousand times better as you are."
He caught her in his arms and kissed her—a fervent, passionate, happy kiss.
"Go and get the paper," he said, as he released her, "and let us read it together, or, rather, let me read it to you—to whom it was written in the beginning. My ideal is realized."
"And so is mine," she said. "How silly we are!"