"Tell me, in mercy tell me, what stands between us two? Speak out now from the depths of your very soul. Lay aside fear; there is nothing to fear, believe me. I am fighting now not only for my life, but for yours which is dearer to me than my own. Speak." I took courage. I looked up at him as he bent over me. "I thought you loved my mother in me--I was afraid it was not I you loved, not Marcia Farrell, but Happy Morey." "You thought _that_!--And I never knew." He spoke rapidly, with a catch in his voice which sounded like a half laugh or a sob. He straightened himself suddenly, then, as suddenly, he bent over me again, took my face between his hands and looked into my eyes, as if by looking he could engrave his words on my brain. "I swear to you by my manhood, that I have loved and love you for yourself, for what you are. I swear to you by my past life, a life that has never known the love of a woman, that the past no longer exists for me; that it no longer existed for me from the moment I saw you coming down stairs that first night at Lamoral. I waited this time to make sure that a woman loved me as I wanted to be loved, as I must be loved--and I waited too long. You are not like your mother, except in looks. You are you--the woman I want to make my wife, the woman I look to, to make life with me. Marcia! Let the past bury its dead--what do we care for it? We are living, you and I--living--loving--" He drew me up to him--and life in its fulness began for me.... "And now put on your hat, give me your coat, and come with me," he said a half an hour afterwards. "Where?" "To the City Hall to get our marriage licence." "To-day?" "Yes, now, before luncheon. Tell Jane you will not return--" "But my bag--shall I take that? And Delia, what will--" "Delia must look out for herself; you can explain by letter. Tell Jane to have your bag sent this afternoon to this address." He gave me a card on which he scribbled, "Check room of the Grand Central Station". "We can be married at the magistrate's office--" I must have shown some disappointment at this decision, for he asked quickly: "What is it, Marcia? Tell me. Remember, I can bear nothing more." I took a lighter tone with him. I saw that the nervous strain under which he was suffering must be relieved. "I am disappointed, yes, downright disappointed. Even if you don't want to make certain promises, I confess I do. I want to say 'I promise'; I want to hear myself saying 'I take you' and 'till death do us part'. I want to say those very words; I would like the whole world to hear. Why, think of it, I am going to be your wife! Do you grasp that fact?" I said, smiling at him. I won an answering smile. "Have your own way; I may as well succumb to the inevitable now as at any time, for you will always have it with me."