“It isn’t,” he declared, bending his weight on it. “Not a little bit.”
But even as he spoke he made an unconscious grimace.
“Do you love me?”
He drew a sharp breath at the categorical question. In a thousand indirect ways he had told her of his devotion; but he had never spoken the explicit words. He said quietly and half wonderingly:
“You know I love you.”
“Then don’t hurt me by hurting yourself.”
“Do you really care what happens to me?” he asked.
“I love you better than anything in the world,” she said.
They paddled home somewhat sobered by the mutual declaration, about which they said nothing more. He admitted overstrain of the still sensitive tissues of the base of the stump, and railed at his misfortune. It was so humiliating to confess defeat. She smiled. There might, she said, be compensation. When they landed, she insisted on his leaning on her for support, during the walk up to the house, and, although he suffered damnable torture whenever he set the artificial foot on the ground, for his pressure on her adorable shoulder was of the slightest, his progress was one of deliciously compensating joy.
They dined decorously under the inscrutable eyes of butler and parlourmaid, and after dinner they called for coat and wrap and went out to sit on the moonlit terrace. As he put the fur-lined cloak round her, his hand touched her cheek. She put up a hand caressingly and held his there while she looked up at him in the dimness. He bent down, greatly daring, and touched her lips. Then suddenly she clasped his head and held his kiss long and passionately.