“Do you wish me to say ’Yes’?” she asked in a low voice.

The red flooded Stafford’s face for a moment, and his eyes fell under her fixed regard.

“What answer does one generally hope for when one puts such a question?” he said, trying to smile.  “I want you to be my wife, and I hope, with all my heart, that you will say ‘Yes.’”

“‘With all your heart,’” she echoed, slowly, almost inaudibly. “’With all your heart.’  With all mine, I answer ‘Yes.’”

As she murmured the words—­and, like that of most cold women when they are intensely moved, her voice could be exquisitely sweet with its thrill of passion, all the sweeter for its rarity—­she insensibly drew nearer to him and her hand stole to his shoulder.  Her eyes were lifted to his, and they shone with the love that was coursing through her veins, almost stopping the beating of her heart.  Love radiated from her as the light radiated from the lamp the mocking satyr held above them.  Stafford was at his best and worst, a man and not a block of stone and wood, and touched, almost fired, by the passion so close to him, he put his arm round her waist and bent his head until his lips nearly touched hers.

Her eyes closed and she was surrendering herself to the kiss, when suddenly she drew her head back, and, keeping him from her, looked up at him.  “Is it with all your heart?” she whispered.  “You have never spoken to me of—­love before.  Is it with all your heart?”

His brow contracted in a frown, he set his teeth hard.  If he were to lie, ’twere better that he lied thoroughly and well; better that his sacrifice should be complete and effectual.  Scarcely knowing what he said, what he did, with the fumes of the champagne confusing his brain, the misery of his lost love racking his heart, he said, hoarsely: 

“I did not know—­till to-night.  You can trust me.  I ask you to be my wife—­I will be true to you—­it is with all my heart!”

If Jove laughs at lovers’ perjuries, the angels must weep at such false oaths as this.  Even as he spoke the words, Stafford remembered the “I love you?” he had cried to Ida as he knelt at her feet, and he shuddered as Maude drew his head down and his lips met hers.

* * * * *

Half an hour later they went slowly up the steps again.  Stafford’s head was still burning, he still felt confused, like a man moving in a dream.  Since he had kissed her he had said very little; and the silences had been broken more often by Maude than by him.  She had told him in a low voice, tremulous with love, and hesitating now and again, how she had fallen in love with him the day he had rowed her on the lake; how she had struggled and striven against the feeling, and how it had conquered her.  How miserable she had been, though she had tried to hide her misery, lest he should never come to care for her, and she should have to suffer that most merciless of all miseries—­unrequited love.  She