“But Charlie—I’m certain there’s something—something you are concealing from me.”
“I conceal nothing from you, dearest,” he answered, looking across the little table straight into her fine dark eyes. Then again he bent towards her and whispered very seriously: “Do you really love me, Peggy?”
In his glance was a tense eager expression, yet upon his face was written a mystery she could not fathom.
“Why do you ask, dear?” she said. “Have I not told you so a hundred times. What I have said, I mean.”
“You really mean—you really mean that you love me—eh?” he whispered in deep earnestness as he still bent to her over the table, his eyes fixed on hers. And he drew a long breath.
“Yes,” she answered. “But why do you ask the question in that tone? How tragic you seem!”
“Because,” and he sighed, “because your answer lifts a great weight from my mind.” Then, after a pause, he added: “Yet—yet, I wonder——”
“Wonder what?”
“Nothing,” he answered. “I was only wondering.”