“It’s cruel, isn’t it, you poor lamb!  But do you know the year is already flying very, very fast?  Do you think I’m not counting the days?”—­and, suddenly yielding—­“if you wish—­if you truly do wish it, dear, I will marry you on the very day that the year—­my year—­ends.  Come over here”—­she seated herself and made a place for him—­“and you won’t caress me too much—­will you?  You wouldn’t make me unhappy, would you?...  Why, yes, I suppose that I might let you touch me occasionally....  And kiss me—­at rare intervals....  But not—­as we have....  You won’t, will you?  Then you may sit here—­a little nearer if you think it wise—­and I’m ready to listen to your views concerning anything on earth, Duane, even including love and wedlock.”

It was very hard for them to judge just what they might or might not permit each other—­how near it was perfectly safe to sit, how long they might, with impunity, look into each other’s eyes in that odd and rather silly fashion which never seems to be out of date.

What worried him was the notion that if she would only marry him at once her safety was secured beyond question; but she explained very sweetly that her safety was almost secured already; that, if let alone, she was at present in absolute command of her fate, mistress of her desires, in full tide of self-control.  Now all she required was an interval to develop character and self-mastery, so that they could meet on even ground and equal terms when the day arrived for her to surrender to him the soul and body she had regained.

“I suppose it’s all right,” he said with a sigh, but utterly unconvinced.  “You always were fair about things, and if it’s your idea of justice to me and to yourself, that settles it.”

“You dear old stupid!” she said, tenderly amused; “it is the best thing for our future.  The ‘sphere of influence’ and the ‘balance of power’ are as delicate matters to adjust in marriage as they are in world-politics.  You’re going to be too famous a painter for your wife to be anything less than a thorough woman.”

She drew a little away from him, bent her head and clasped both hands around her knee.

“There is another reason why I should be in autocratic command over myself when we marry....  It is difficult for me to explain to you....  Do you remember that I wrote you once that I was—­afraid to marry you—­not for our own sakes?”

Her young face was grave and serious; she bent her gaze on her ringless fingers.

“That,” she said, “is the most vital and—­sacred reason of all.”

“Yes, dear.”  He did not dare to touch her, scarcely dared look at the pure, thoughtful profile until she lifted her head and her fearless eyes sought his.

And they smiled, unembarrassed, unafraid.

* * * * *

“Those people are deliberately leaving us here to spoon,” she declared indignantly.  “I know perfectly well that dinner was announced ages ago!” And, raising her voice:  “Scott, you silly ninny!  Where in the world are you?”