“And now,” said he, very gently, and even timidly, but his firm hand held her languid one with something of a more nervous clasp, “if you would only tell me, Gerty, that on such and such a day you would leave the stage altogether, and on such and such a day you would let me come to London—­and you know the rest—­then I would go to my mother, and there would be no need of any more secrecy, and instead of her treating you merely as a guest she would look on you as her daughter, and you might talk with her frankly.”

She did not at all withdraw the small gloved hand, with its fringe of fur at the end of the narrow sleeve.  On the contrary, as it lay there in his warm grasp, it was like the small, white, furred foot of a ptarmigan, so little and soft and gentle was it.

“Well, you know, Keith,” she said, with a great kindness in the clear eyes, though they were cast down, “I think the secret between you and me should be known to nobody at all but ourselves—­any more than we can reasonably help.  And it is a very great step to take; and you must not expect me to be in a hurry, for no good ever came of that.  I did not think you would have cared so much—­I mean, a man has so many distractions and occupations of shooting, and going away in your yacht and all that—­I fancy—­I am a little surprised—­that you make so much of it.  We have a great deal to learn yet, Keith; we don’t know each other very well.  By and by we may be quite sure that there is no danger; that we understand each other; that nothing and nobody is likely to interfere.  But wouldn’t you prefer to be left in the meantime just a little bit free—­not quite pledged, you know, to such a serious thing—­”

He had been listening to these faltering phrases in a kind of dazed and pained stupor.  It was like the water overwhelming a drowning man.  But at last he cried out—­and he grasped both her hands in the sudden vehemence of the moment—­

“Gerty, you are not drawing back!  You do not despair of our being husband and wife!  What is it that you mean?”

“Oh, Keith!” said she, quickly withdrawing one of her hands, “you frighten me when you talk like that!  You do not know what you are doing—­you have hurt my wrist!”

“Oh, I hope not!” said he.  “Have I hurt your hand, Gerty?—­and I would cut off one of mine to save you a scratch!  But you will tell me now that you have no fears—­that you don’t want to draw back!  I would like to take you back to Dare, and be able to say to every one, ’Do you know that this is my wife—­that by and by she is coming to Dare—­and you will all be kind to her for her own sake and for mine.’  And if there is anything wrong, Gerty, if there is anything you would like altered, I would have it altered.  We have a rude way of life; but every one would be kind to you.  And if the life here is too rough for you, I would go anywhere with you that you choose to live.  I was looking at the houses in Essex.  I would go to Essex, or anywhere you might wish; that need not separate us at all.  And why are you so cold and distant, Gerty?  Has anything happened here to displease you?  Have we frightened you by too much of the boats and of the sea?  Would you rather live in an English county away from the sea?  But I would do that for you, Gerty—­if I was never to see a sea-bird again.”