"That is why I have just paid eighty-four
pounds for a passage to Buenos Ayres."
"I should have enjoyed the trip," he said. "Still, I'm glad I
haven't to go."
"Do you really mean that you would have come after me?" she asked
curiously.
"Of course I should," he assured her. "Believe me, there isn't
such an obstinate person in the world as the man of early
middle-age who suddenly discovers the woman he means to marry."
"But you can't marry me," she protested.
"Why not?" he asked.
"Because I was Oliver Hilditch's wife, for one thing."
"Look here," he said, "if you had been Beelzebub's wife, it
wouldn't make the least difference to me. You haven't given me
much of a chance to tell you so yet, Margaret, but I love you."
She sat a little forward in her chair. Her eyes were fixed upon
his wonderingly.
"But how can you?" she exclaimed. "You know, nothing of me except
my associations, and they have been horrible. What is there to
love in me? I am a frozen-up woman. Everything is dead here,"
she went on, clasping her hand to her heart. "I have no
sentiment, no passion, nothing but an animal desire to live my
life luxuriously and quickly."
He smiled confidently. Then, with very little warning, he sank
on one knee, drew her face to his, kissed her lips and then her
eyes.
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