of the wonderful happiness that had
come to them. The past, with all its hideous disappointments and
horrors, was forgotten--the future did not belong to them; but the
present--ah, it was theirs; none could take it from them. It was the
girl who first broke the sweet silence.

"Where are we going, dear?" she asked. "What are we going to do?"

"Where would you like best to go?" he asked. "What would you like best
to do?"

"To go where you go, my man; to do whatever seems best to you," she
answered.

"But Clayton?" he asked. For a moment he had forgotten that there
existed upon the earth other than they two. "We have forgotten your
husband."

"I am not married, Tarzan of the Apes," she cried. "Nor am I longer
promised in marriage. The day before those awful creatures captured me
I spoke to Mr. Clayton of my love for you, and he understood then that
I could not keep the wicked promise that I had made. It was after we
had been miraculously saved from an attacking lion." She paused
suddenly and looked up at him, a questioning light in her eyes.
"Tarzan of the Apes," she cried, "it was you who did that thing? It
could have been no other."

He dropped his eyes, for he was ashamed.

"How could you have gone away and left me?" she cried reproachfully.

"Don't, Jane!" he pleaded. "Please don't! You cannot know how I have
suffered since for the cruelty of that act, or how I suffered then,
first in jealous rage, and then in bitter resentment against the fate
that I had not deserved. I went back to the apes after that, Jane,
intending never again to see a human being." He told her then of his
life since he had returned to the jungle--of how he had dropped like a
plummet from a civilized Parisian to a savage Waziri warrior, and from
there back to the brute that he had been raised.

She asked him many questions, and at last fearfully of the things that
Monsieur Thuran had told her--of the woman in Paris. He narrated every
detail of his civilized life to her, omitting nothing, for he felt no
shame, since his heart always had been true to her. When he had
finished he sat looking at her, as though waiting for her judgment, and
his sentence.

"I knew that he was not speaking the truth," she said. "Oh, what a
horrible creature he is!"

"You are not angry with me, then?" he asked.

And her reply, though apparently most irrelevant, was truly feminine.

"Is Olga de Coude very beautiful?" she asked.

And Ta