“But at least a married woman has a name—­whatever she may do.  She’s—­protected.  She isn’t——­”

But Paul would hear no more.

“Opal, we were made for each other from the beginning—­surely we were.  Some imp has slipped into the scheme of things somewhere and turned it upside down.”

He paused.  She looked up searchingly into his eyes.

“Paul, do you love me?”

“Yes, dearest!”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I am of my own existence!  With all my heart, Opal—­with all my soul!”

“Then we mustn’t see each other any more!”

“Not any more.  You are right, Opal, not any more!”

“But what shall we do, Paul?  We shall be sure to meet often.  You expect to stay the summer through, do you not?  And we are not going to New Orleans for several weeks yet—­and then?”

“We are going West, Father Paul and I—­out on the prairies to rough it for a while.  We were going before long, anyway, and a few weeks sooner or later won’t make any difference.  And then—­home, back over the sea again, to face life, to work, to try to be—­strong, I suppose.”

Paul paused and looked at her passionately.

“Why are you so alluring to-night, Opal?”

Her whole body quivered, caught fire from the flame in his eyes.  What was there about this man that made her always so conscious she was a woman?  Why could she never be calm in his presence, but was always so fated to feel, feel, feel!

Her voice trembled as she looked up at him and answered, “Am I wicked, Paul?  I wanted to be happy to-night—­just for to-night!  I wanted to forget the fate that was staring me so relentlessly in the face.  But—­I couldn’t, Paul!”

Then she glanced through the curtains into the ballroom and shuddered.

“The Count is looking for me,” she said.  The Boy winced, and she went on rapidly, excitedly.  “We must part.  As well now as any time, I suppose, since it has to be.  But first, Paul, let me say it once—­just once—­I love you!”

He snatched her to him—­God! that any one else should ever have the right!

“And I—­worship you, Opal!  Even that seems a weak word, to-night.  But—­you understand, don’t you?  I didn’t know at sea whether it was love or what it was that had seized me as nothing ever had before.  But I know now!  And listen, Opal—­this isn’t a vow, nor anything of that kind—­but I feel that I want to say it.  I shall always love you just this way—­always—­I feel it, I know it!—­as long as I live!  Will you remember, darling?—­remember—­everything?”

“Yes—­yes!  And you, Paul?”

“Till death!” And his lips held hers, regardless of ten thousand Counts and their claims upon her caresses.

And they clung together again in the anguish of parting that comes at some time, or another into the lives of all who know love.

Then like mourners walking away from the graves of their loved ones, they returned to the ballroom, with the dull ache of buried happiness in their hearts.