"Very good," she cried exultantly. "It's mere simple arithmetic--the adding of your adventure and my adventure together. So that's settled, and you needn't jeer at adventure any more. Next, I don't think there was anything romantic in Tudor's attempting to kiss me, nor anything like adventure in this absurd duel. But I do think, now, that it was romantic for you to fall in love with me. And finally, and it is adding romance to romance, I think . . . I think I do love you, Dave--oh, Dave!" The last was a sighing dove-cry as he caught her up in his arms and pressed her to him. "But I don't love you because you played the fool to-day," she whispered on his shoulder. "White men shouldn't go around killing each other." "Then why do you love me?" he questioned, enthralled after the manner of all lovers in the everlasting query that for ever has remained unanswered. "I don't know--just because I do, I guess. And that's all the satisfaction you gave me when we had that man-talk. But I have been loving you for weeks--during all the time you have been so deliciously and unobtrusively jealous of Tudor." "Yes, yes, go on," he urged breathlessly, when she paused. "I wondered when you'd break out, and because you didn't I loved you all the more. You were like Dad, and Von. You could hold yourself in check. You didn't make a fool of yourself." "Not until to-day," he suggested. "Yes, and I loved you for that, too. It was about time. I began to think you were never going to bring up the subject again. And now that I have offered myself you haven't even accepted." With both hands on her shoulders he held her at arm's-length from him and looked long into her eyes, no longer cool but seemingly pervaded with a golden flush. The lids drooped and yet bravely did not droop as she returned his gaze. Then he fondly and solemnly drew her to him. "And how about that hearth and saddle of your own?" he asked, a moment later. "I well-nigh won to them. The grass house is my hearth, and the _Martha_ my saddle, and--and look at all the trees I've planted, to say nothing of the sweet corn. And it's all your fault anyway. I might never have loved you if you hadn't put the idea into my head." "There's the _Nongassla_ coming in around the point with her boats out," Sheldon remarked irrelevantly. "And the Commissioner is on board. He's going down to San Cristoval to investigate that missionary killing. We're in luck, I must say." "I don't see where the luck comes in," she said dolefully. "We ought to have this evening all to ourselves just to talk things over. I've a thousand questions to ask you." "And it wouldn't have been a man-talk either," she added. "But my plan is better than that." He debated with himself a moment. "You see, the Commissioner is the one official in the islands who can give us a license. And--there's the luck of it--Doctor Welshmere is here to perform the ceremony. We'll get married this evening."