Now, as our glances met thus, up from throat to brow there crept that hot, slow wave of color, and in her face and in her eyes I seemed to read joy, and fear, and shame, and radiant joy again.  But now she bent her head once more, and strove to pleat another fold, and could not; while I grew suddenly afraid of her and of myself, and longed to hurl aside the table that divided us; and thrust my hands deep into my pockets, and, finding there my tobacco-pipe, brought it out and fell to turning it aimlessly over and over.  I would have spoken, only I knew that my voice would tremble, and so I sat mum-chance, staring at my pipe with unseeing eyes, and with my brain in a ferment.  And presently came her voice, cool and sweet and sane: 

“Your tobacco, Peter,” and she held the box towards me across the table.

“Ah, thank you!” said I, and began to fill my pipe, while she watched me with her chin propped in her hands.

“Peter!”

“Yes, Charmian?”

“I wonder why so grave a person as Mr. Peter Vibart should seek to marry so impossible a creature as—­the Humble Person?”

“I think,” I answered, “I think, if there is any special reason, it is because of—­your mouth.”

“My mouth?”

“Or your eyes—­or the way you have with your lashes.”

Charmian laughed, and forthwith drooped them at me, and laughed again, and shook her head.

“But surely, Peter, surely there are thousands, millions of women with mouths and eyes like—­the Humble Person’s?”

“It is possible,” said I, “but none who have the same way with their lashes.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell; I don’t know.”

“Don’t you, Peter?”

“No—­it is just a way.”

“And so it is that you want to marry this very Humble Person?”

“I think I have wanted to from the very first, but did not know it—­being a blind fool!”

“And—­did it need a night walk in a thunderstorm to teach you?”

“No—­that is, yes—­perhaps it did.”

“And—­are you quite, quite sure?”

“Quite—­quite sure!” said I, and, as I spoke, I laid my pipe upon the table and rose; and, because my hands were trembling, I clenched my fists.  But, as I approached her, she started up and put out a hand to hold me off, and then I saw that her hands were trembling also.  And standing thus, she spoke, very softly: 

“Peter.”

“Yes, Charmian?”

“Do you remember describing to me the—­the perfect woman who should be your—­wife?”

“Yes.”

“How that you must be able to respect her for her intellect?”

“Yes.”

“Honor her for her virtue?”

“Yes, Charmian.”

“And worship her—­for her—­spotless purity?”

“I dreamed a paragon—­perfect and impossible; I was a fool!” said I.

“Impossible!  Oh, Peter! what—­what do you mean?”