“You make me the proudest girl in all the earth,” she said, with her head pillowed on his shoulder.  “I thought it only natural that you should be dazzled by the title—­maybe even unconsciously, you being English—­and that you might be deceiving yourself in thinking you loved only me, and find you didn’t love me when the deception was swept away; so it makes me proud that the revelation stands for nothing and that you do love just me, only me—­oh, prouder than any words can tell!”

“It is only you, sweetheart, I never gave one envying glance toward your father’s earldom.  That is utterly true, dear Gwendolen.”

“There—­you mustn’t call me that.  I hate that false name.  I told you it wasn’t mine.  My name is Sally Sellers—­or Sarah, if you like.  From this time I banish dreams, visions, imaginings, and will no more of them.  I am going to be myself—­my genuine self, my honest self, my natural self, clear and clean of sham and folly and fraud, and worthy of you.  There is no grain of social inequality between us; I, like you, am poor; I, like you, am without position or distinction; you are a struggling artist, I am that, too, in my humbler way.  Our bread is honest bread, we work for our living.  Hand in hand we will walk hence to the grave, helping each other in all ways, living for each other, being and remaining one in heart and purpose, one in hope and aspiration, inseparable to the end.  And though our place is low, judged by the world’s eye, we will make it as high as the highest in the great essentials of honest work for what we eat and wear, and conduct above reproach.  We live in a land, let us be thankful, where this is all-sufficient, and no man is better than his neighbor by the grace of God, but only by his own merit.”

Tracy tried to break in, but she stopped him and kept the floor herself.

“I am not through yet.  I am going to purge myself of the last vestiges of artificiality and pretence, and then start fair on your own honest level and be worthy mate to you thenceforth.  My father honestly thinks he is an earl.  Well, leave him his dream, it pleases him and does no one any harm:  It was the dream of his ancestors before him.  It has made fools of the house of Sellers for generations, and it made something of a fool of me, but took no deep root.  I am done with it now, and for good.  Forty-eight hours ago I was privately proud of being the daughter of a pinchbeck earl, and thought the proper mate for me must be a man of like degree; but to-day—­oh, how grateful I am for your love which has healed my sick brain and restored my sanity!—­I could make oath that no earl’s son in all the world—­”

“Oh,—­well, but—­but—­”

“Why, you look like a person in a panic.  What is it?  What is the matter?”

“Matter?  Oh, nothing—­nothing.  I was only going to say”—­but in his flurry nothing occurred to him to say, for a moment; then by a lucky inspiration he thought of something entirely sufficient for the occasion, and brought it out with eloquent force:  “Oh, how beautiful you are!  You take my breath away when you look like that.”