“And--and that was all,” wound up Jean. “And, anyway, Blaise”--a little anxiously--“it’s over now, and I’m none the worse except for the acquisition of a little more worldly wisdom and a strained ankle.” “Yes, it’s over now,” he said, standing looking down at her with a curious gleam in his eyes. “But that sort of thing shan’t happen twice. You’ll have to marry me--do you hear?”--imperiously. “You shall never run such a risk again. We’ll get married at once!” And Jean, with a quiver of amusement at the corners of her mouth, responded meekly: “Yes, Blaise.” The next minute his arms were round her and their lips met in the first supreme kiss of love at last acknowledged--of love given and returned. ***** There is no gauge by which those first moments when two who love confess that they are lovers may be measured. It is the golden, timeless span when “unborn to-morrow and dead yesterday” cease to hem us round about and only love, and love’s ecstasy, remain. To Blaise and Jean it might have been an hour--a commonplace period ticked off by the little silver clock upon the chimneypiece--or half eternity before they came back to the recollection of things mundane. When they did, it was across the kindly bridge of humour. Blaise laughed out suddenly and boyishly. “It’s preposterous!” he exclaimed. “I quite forgot to propose.” “So you did! Suppose”--smiling up at him impertinently--“suppose you do it now?” “Not I! I won’t waste my breath when I might put it to so much better use in calling you belovedest.” Jean was silent, but her eyes answered him. She had made room for him beside her, and now he was seated upon the edge of the Chesterfield, holding her in his arms. She did not want to talk much. That still, serene happiness which lies deep within the heart is not provocative of garrulity. At last a question--the question that had tormented her through all the long months since she had first realised whither love was leading her, found its way to her lips. “Why didn’t you tell me before, Blaise?” His face clouded. “Because of all that had happened in the past. You know--you have been told about Nesta----” “Ah, yes! Don’t talk about it, Blaise,” she broke in hastily, sensing his distasteful recoil from the topic. “I think we must a little, dear,” he responded gravely. “You see, Nesta was not all to blame--nor even very much, as I’m sure”--with a little half-tender smile--“my mother tried hard to make you believe.” Jean nodded vigorously. “She did. And I expect she was perfectly right” He shook his head.