and touched, a little abashed by their gaze, he took her hand,
kissed it, and murmured, 'Please say you'll have me.'

'Do you love me?' Althea breathed out; it was not that she questioned or
hesitated; the words came to her lips in answer to the situation rather
than in questioning of him. And it was hardly a shock; it was, in a
subtle way, a further realisation of exquisiteness, when the situation,
in his reply, defined itself as a reality still further removed from her
imagination of what such a situation should be.

Holding her hand, his gay brown eyes upon her, he said, after only the
very slightest pause, 'Miss Jakes, I'm not a romantic person, you see
that; you see the sort of person I am. I can't make pretty speeches, not
when I'm serious, as I am now. When I make pretty speeches, I'm only
flirting. I like you. I respect you. I've watched you here in my old
home and I've thought, "If only she would make it home again." I've
thought that you'd help me to make a new life. I want to come and live
here, with you, and do the things I told you about--the things that
needed money.'

His eyes were on hers, so quietly and so gravely, now, that they seemed
to hold from her all ugly little interpretations; he trusted her with
the true one, he trusted her not to see it as ugly. 'You see, I'm not
romantic,' he went on, 'and I can only tell you the truth. I couldn't
have thought of marrying you if you hadn't had money, but I needn't tell
you that, if you'd had millions, I wouldn't have thought of marrying
you unless I cared for you. So there it is, quite clear and simple. I
think I can make you happy; will you make me happy?'

It was exquisite, the trust, the truth, the quiet gravity, and yet there
was pain in the exquisiteness. She could not look at it yet distinctly
for it seemed part of the beauty. It was rarer, more dignified, this
wooing, than commonplace protestations of devotion. It was a large and
beautiful life he opened to her and he needed her to make it real. They
needed each other. Yet--here the pain hovered--they needed each other so
differently. To her, he was the large and beautiful life; to him, she
was only a part of it, and a means to it. But she could not look at
pain. Pride was mounting in her, pride in him, her beloved and her
possession. Before all the world, henceforth, he would be hers. And the
greatness of that pride cast out lesser ones. He had discriminated, been
carefully sincere; her sincerity