“You love me—like that?”
The great wonder of glory that suddenly held his soul in awe, shone from his eyes, dazzling and confusing the woman, whose own lowered tremulously.
“Like that?” he repeated. “Say it again.”
“I have told you too much already,” she murmured. And then the woman’s tears and tenderness all gushed forth, and she raised swimming eyes to him.’ “Oh, Hugh dear, why did you make me tell you?” In a moment she was sobbing in his arms, clinging to him, yielding herself to the ecstatic solace. Half shamed, she drooped her head and hid her face against his breast, and he held her tightly to him. Then there was a long great silence. The woman’s heart drank thirstily of the intoxicating flood of happiness. But the man’s burned white hot in the stress of agonising conflict. She could not see his drawn face. His short sharp breathing only told her of emotion too deep for words. Its pain did not pierce through her bliss. Her fair head rested contentedly against the molten furnace. Through such brief, fierce, soul-scorching fires come the tremendous decisions of life.
“Will you marry me, Irene?” he said at last.
She moved her head for a moment, like a child. Then she raised it, and drew herself gently from him.
“Do you know why I was crying—a woman is a fool, Hugh dear—when you came in?”
“Why?”
“I thought you did not want me. It was bitter. A turning of the tables.”
“Since when have you loved me?” he asked.