"Paul, do you know that I am sleepy and tired, while you are keeping me up with such idle nonsense? If we must begin at this late day to worry over our past loves and dreams, suppose you begin first by telling me how many separate ladies you loved before you ever met me! Come, begin with the first on the list." "It begins and ends with--yourself," he said, gravely and firmly. "Like the story of Mrs. Osgood's Evelyn," she rejoined, smiling, and beginning to hum lightly: "It began with--'My Evelyn fairest!' It ended with--'Evelyn best!' And epithets fondest and dearest, Were lavished between on the rest." Then breaking off, she says more seriously and softly: "Then try to think that is the same with me. Don't worry over such idle speculations. I am tired and half sick, dear." "Gracie, you drive me to desperation. I asked you a simple question--why do you try to evade it?" "Because it is unfair to me. I haven't asked you any such ridiculous questions. I won't submit to be catechised so, positively, I won't! Don't be angry, dear. I am sure the slightest reflection on your part will convince you that I am right. I have partly forgotten the past; have ignored it anyhow, not caring to look back any further in my life than the two years in which I have known and loved you. All the happiness I ever really knew has been showered on me by your lavish hand. Be content in knowing that and spare me, Paul." "I thank you, Grace, for your sweet tribute to me, but I asked you a question and I am--waiting for your answer." "I thought I had answered you plainly enough, Paul. Why will you persist in making us both unhappy?" "Gracie, will you answer or not?" "Oh, darling! you have worried me into a nervous chill. I am cold as ice," and to prove the truth of her words she pressed two icy little hands upon his cheek, and for the first time in his life he pushed his fairy away from him. "You must not trifle with me, Grace." "You still insist on it, Paul?" "I still insist on it." "At the risk of your own unhappiness?" "Yes." She looked at him sadly as she leaned across the crib near him, but not touching him. "Paul," she ventured, suddenly, "even supposing that I had loved another before I ever met you, what difference can that make to you? I love you truly now." "So much difference, my wife, that I think I could never again be happy if I knew you had ever loved another than myself; but I cannot bear this suspense. I ask you nothing about other men. I only ask you, _did_ you ever love Bruce Conway?" She could not utter a falsehood; she could not escape his keen, persistent questioning; she must be frank with him and hope for the best. That was the only way the poor little heart reasoned then; so with down-dropped eyes, and a sound in her ears that recalled the whisper of the ocean in her ears one parting night, she drew a little farther away from him, and answered, in a hushed, low voice, much like a chidden child's: