She did swim with it. Never before had Peppingham drawing-room heard a song like this; never before, never after, did any of Delia Gasgoyne’s friends hear her sing as she did that night. And Lady Gravesend whispered for a week afterwards that Delia Gasgoyne sang a wild love song in the most abandoned way with that colonial Belward. Really a song of the most violent sentiment! There had been witchery in it all. For Gaston lifted the girl on the waves of his music, and did what he pleased with her, as she sang: “O love, by the light of thine eye We will fare oversea, We will be As the silver-winged herons that rest By the shallows, The shallows of sapphire stone; No more shall we wander alone. As the foam to the shore Is my spirit to thine; And God’s serfs as they fly,-- The Mockers of Death They will breathe on the embers of fire: We shall live by that breath,-- Sweet, thy heart to my heart, As we journey afar, No more, nevermore, to return!” When the song was ended there was silence, then an eager murmur, and requests for more; but Gaston, still lengthening the close of the accompaniment, said quietly: “No more. I wanted to hear you sing that song only.” He rose. “I am so very hot,” she said. “Come into the hall.” They passed into the long corridor, and walked up and down, for a time in silence. “You felt that music?” he asked at last. “As I never felt music before,” she replied. “Do you know why I asked you to sing it?” “How should I know?” “To see how far you could go with it.” “How far did I go?” “As far as I expected.” “It was satisfactory?” “Perfectly.” “But why--experiment--on me?” “That I might see if you were not, after all, as much a barbarian as I.” “Am I?” “No. That was myself singing as well as you. You did not enjoy it altogether, did you?” “In a way, yes. But--shall I be honest? I felt, too, as if, somehow, it wasn’t quite right; so much--what shall I call it?” “So much of old Adam and the Garden? Sit down here for a moment, will you?” She trembled a little, and sat. “I want to speak plainly and honestly to you,” he said, looking earnestly at her. “You know my history--about my wife who died in Labrador, and all the rest?” “Yes, they have told me.” “Well, I have nothing to hide, I think; nothing more that you ought to know: though I’ve been a scamp one way and another.” “‘That I ought to know’?” she repeated. “Yes: for when a man asks a woman to be his wife, he should be prepared to open the cupboard of skeletons.” She was silent; her heart was beating so hard that it hurt her. “I am going to ask you to be my wife, Delia.” She was silent, and sat motionless, her hands clasped in her lap. He went on “I don’t know that you will be wise to accept me, but if you will take the risk--” “Oh, Gaston, Gaston!” she said, and her hands fluttered towards his.