"No, but suppose you did? And found yourself tied legally by a fool agreement to Oswald Grismer?" "Oh. I never considered that." "Consider it, now!" "It isn’t likely to happen——" "Consider it, all the same." "Well—but I’ve never been in love. But if it happened—well—that _would_ be a jolly mess, wouldn’t it?" "I should think so! What would you do about it?" "There wouldn’t be anything to do except to wait until my two years of trial marriage was up," she said thoughtfully. "You could divorce him before that." "Oh, no. I promised to give him two years." "To sit saddled with this ridiculous burden for two years?" "Yes, I promised." "Oh, Steve! Steve! What a muddle you have made of things! What good does it do you or him to have this chain between you? You’ve lost your liberty. You’re a legal wife without being one. You’ve put shackles on yourself for God knows what whim or caprice." "But, Jim," she said, bewildered, "I _expect_ to be his wife, ultimately." "What?" "Of course. I wasn’t absolutely sure that I could fall in love with him, that was all. I have very little doubt that I shall. I like to be with him: I am never bored when he is with me; our tastes are similar; our beliefs are unconventional. We suit each other admirably. It wasn’t such a rash thing to do. You see, it is perfectly safe every way." For a long while he sat beside her in silence. She had slipped out of his arms and now sat with one hand lying across his, watching the enigmatic expressions which flitted over his rather sombre and flushed features. Finally he looked up: "Steve?" "Yes?" "Suppose _I_ fell in love with—you?" "Oh, Jim!" She began to laugh, then the mirth faded in her grey eyes, and her lips grew quiet and rather grave. "_You?_" she said, half to herself. "Do you remember some letters I once wrote you?" "Yes." "You wrote asking if I meant them to be love letters." "Yes. You answered very vaguely. I think I frightened you," she said, laughing. "They _were_ love letters," he said. "I didn’t happen to know it; that is all. I _was_ in love with you then. I didn’t realize it; you did not believe it. But now I know it was so." "How _could_ you have been in love with me?" she inquired, astonished. "You asked me that in your letters. I thought it over and I didn’t see how I could be, either. I wasn’t much more than a boy. Boys drift with the prevailing tide. The tide set away from home and from you.... Yet, I was in love with you once, Steve." She bent her head and looked down gravely at her slender hand, which lay across his. "That was very dear of you," she murmured. After a silence: "And—you?" he asked. "Do you mean, was I ever in love with you?" "Yes." "I—don’t—know. I loved your letters. There didn’t seem to be any room in my heart for more affection than it held for you. I adored you. I do now. Perhaps, if you had come back——" "I wish I had!"