“Richard,” she whispered, with her face very close to mine, “do you know that, when you--when you cried out to stop me just now, it was the first time in all your life you had called me Ira?” “Was it? I don’t know why I called you so then. It came out involuntarily.” “Yes; so I supposed; and it was that that made me burst out crying and run away.” “I don’t understand why.” “No, you wouldn’t. You must be a woman first.” “Like you, you chit, I suppose you mean. But something occurs to me that I want to ask you. Do you remember that kiss I gave you long ago?” “Perhaps I do--if I flog my memory very hard.” “Ira, did you hate me for it?” “N-o-o--I think not.” “What then?” “You can imagine nothing but extremes. Isn’t there something--I only put it to you, you know--between hate, and--love?” “No; nothing whatever.” “O! then I suppose I didn’t hate you for it.” “You dear! What would you have thought of Johnny Dando if he had dared such a thing?” “Mr Dando? I should have been furious--outrageously furious; and then spoilt all the effect by laughing myself into hysterics, I expect. But it’s too absurd to think of for a moment. He’s much too good-mannered, for one thing.” “O, Ira!” “Does that hurt you, Richard? You have insulted me often enough to deserve that toll, dear. Don’t you remember your own words? But, there! It’s very helpful, sometimes, to be taken by storm.” “I have been very cruel to you, you lovely soft thing.” Her young arms stole sweetly about my neck. “How nice to hear your flattery, Richard. You might beat me ten times a day, if you would always end by saying such things to me. And you have the air of believing them. _Am_ I pretty--to you, I mean?” “As if you didn’t know it.” “That is to say you think me spoilt.” “Well, young lady, a cherry’s only the sweeter for having a little bruise in it. But you’ve come on finely in these years. To think what a detestable little prig you used to be!” “Now you want to make me cry.” “Cry away. There aren’t many women to whom tears are becoming, but I expect you are one of the few.” “What a Sultan you are; but not very wise to flatter me there. Think what it would mean to have a crying wife!” A wife! The words struck a sudden chill into me. My arms, strained passionately about the child, relaxed a little. “Ira,” I groaned, “I swear that until this moment I have never realised my madness.” She did not answer; but her eyes canvassed me with a sudden piteous wonder. “That I should dream of such a monstrous thing--dream that any claim of mine to you would be listened to for a moment!” She gave a heart-won happy sigh, and her face was summer again. “Have _I_ not listened to you, Richard--with all my ears and heart?” “Yes; but your guardian? The world?” “What are they to us? I shall soon be my own mistress.” “Yes, but--O, Ira! I wish I could say I shall soon be my own master.”