“I was starting out to come to you, and he caught me.  He all but disowned me.  I came right on—­I told him I was coming.  And on the way here I thought—­I knew I would have to tell you what had happened.

“And I thought if you were secretly sorry—­for last night—­when you heard about father and I—­you would feel that you had to stand by me anyway!  And then I would never know if you really—­ So I had to find out, first.”

This confused explanation was perfectly clear to Ambrose.

“Will you always be doubting me?” he asked wistfully.  “Can’t you believe what you see?”

She crept under his arm.  “It was so sudden!” she murmured.  “When I am not with you my heart fails me.  How can I be sure?”

He undertook to assure her with what eloquence his heart lent his tongue.  The feeling was rarer than the words.

“How wonderful,” said Ambrose dreamily, “for two to feel the same toward each other!  I always thought that women, well, just allowed men to love them.”

“You dear innocent!” she whispered.  “If you knew!  Women are not supposed to give anything away!  It makes men draw back.  It makes them insufferable.”

“It makes me humble,” said Ambrose.

“You boy!” she breathed.

“I’m years older than you,” he said.

“Women’s hearts are born old,” said Colina; “men’s never grow out of babyhood.”

Her head was lying back on the thick of his arm.

“Your throat is as lovely—­as lovely as pearl!” he whispered, brooding over her.

The exquisite throat trembled with laughter.

“You’re coming out!” she said.

“I don’t care!” said Ambrose.  “You’re as beautiful as—­what is the most beautiful thing I know?—­as beautiful as a morning in June up North.”

“I don’t know which I like better,” she murmured.

“Of what?” he asked.

“To have you praise me or abuse me.  Both are so sweet!”

“Do you know,” he said, “I am wondering this minute if I am dreaming!  I’m afraid to breathe hard for fear of waking up.”

She smiled enchantingly.

“Kiss me!” she whispered.  “These are real lips.”

“Sit up,” he said presently, with a sigh, “We must talk hard sense to each other.  What the devil are we going to do?”

She leaned against his shoulder.

“Whatever you decide,” she said mistily.

“What did your father say to you?” asked Ambrose.

She shuddered.  “Hideous quarrelling!” she said.  “I have the temper of a devil, Ambrose!”

“I don’t care,” he said.

“When I told him where I was going he took me back in the library and started in,” she went on.  “He was so angry he could scarcely speak.  If he had let it go it wouldn’t have been so bad.  But to try to make believe he wasn’t angry!  His hypocrisy disgusted me.

“To go on about my own good and all that, and all the time he was just plain mad!  I taunted him until he was almost in a state of ungovernable fury.  He would not mention you until I forced him to.