“And, Marcos—­you made another promise.  You said that we were only going to play at being married—­a sort of game.”

“Yes,” he answered steadily.  He did not turn.  He never saw her hands stretched out towards him.  Then suddenly he gave a start and sat still as stone.  Her hands were on his hair, soft as the touch of a bird.  Her fingers crept down his forehead and closed over his eyes firmly and tenderly—­a precaution which was unnecessary in the darkness—­for she was leaning over his chair and her hair, dusky as the night itself, fell over his face like a curtain.

“Then I think it is a stupid game—­and I do not want to play it any longer ...  Marcos.”