He was in the corner of the sofa, she on the high fender stool in the firelight. There were only oil lamps in the room, and she and the fireside shone more brightly than they. When she said softly, “Tonight for instance,” she got up; her eyes seemed to challenge him. He rose too, and would have taken her in his arms, but that she resisted. “No, no, no, you don’t really want to ... talking is enough for you.” “You strange Margaret,” he said tenderly. “I sometimes wonder if you care for me or only for my talk,” she said with a nervous laugh. “If you only knew.” His arms remained about her. “If I only knew!” she exclaimed. “Tell me,” she whispered coaxingly. “How I long for this waiting time to be at an end. To woo you, win you. You say anything approaching physical love is hateful and abhorrent to you. Yet, if I thought ... Margaret!” She did not repel him, although his arms were around her. And now, reverently, softly, he sought and found her unreluctant lips. One of the lamps flickered and went out. His arms tightened about her; she had not thought to be so happy in any man’s arms. Her heart beat very fast and the blood in her pulses rose. “How much do you care for me?” she whispered; her voice trembled. “More than for life itself,” he whispered back. “And I ... I....” He felt her trembling in his arms as if with fear. He loved and hushed her with ineffable tenderness, his control keeping pace with his rising blood. “My love, my love, I will take care of you. Trust yourself to me. I love you perfectly, beloved.” He had an exquisite sense of honour and a complete ignorance of womanhood. A flash of electricity from him and all would have been aflame. But she had said once that until the decree was made absolute she did not look upon herself as a free woman. “My little brave one, beloved. _It will not be always like this between us._ Tell me that it will not. I count the days and hours. You will take me for your husband?” She could feel the beating of his pulses, her cheek lay against his coat. But her heart slowed down a little. How steadfast he was and reliable, the soul of honour. But she was a woman, difficult to satisfy. She had wanted from him this evening, this moment, something of that she won so easily from Peter Kennedy. The temperament she denied was alight and clamorous. “Gabriel.” “Heart of my innermost heart.” “I am so lonely in this house.” “Sweetheart.” “So lonely; it is haunted, I think. I can never sleep, I lie awake ... for hours. _Don’t go._” Her own words shook and shocked her. She was still and supine in his encompassing arm. There was perhaps a relaxation of his moral fineness, a faint disintegration. But of only a moment’s duration, and no man ever held a woman more reverently or more tenderly. “My wife that will be ... that will be soon. How I adore you.” Their hands were interlocked, they felt the dear sweetness of each other’s breath; their hearts were beating fast.