"Is it not a matter of
surprise that you should still be living, Miss Lafitte? he asked,
concealing his trepidation under the appearance of raillery.
"Why?"
"Because you have been in love with me for several weeks."
Struck with the truth rather than the audacity of his assertion, she
looked down, pondering intently a little space; then, not considering
what the admission involved, she said in a choked voice, "You are
right."
"And it has not hurt you," he went on eagerly. "I cannot hurt you.
Won't you believe me?"
Another longer pause, and the words came trembling forth: "If it
_could_ be so!"
"It _is_ so. It has been already proved." He took her hand gently: she
permitted it to lie in his, and silence, the language of full hearts,
ministered between them.
She broke it finally by the whispered question, "You are quite, quite
sure that these warnings are not peculiar--that science can account
for them?"
"On my honor, yes."
"I want to believe--I do believe you. I will risk my life for you:
I--I--I love you, Maurice."
"My darling!"
She was very quiet, even sad, that evening.
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