His tone shook with
passion. No one would have recognised Brott now. In his fiercest
hour of debate, his hour of greatest trial, he had worn his mask,
always master of himself and his speech. And now he had cast it
off. His eyes were hungry, his lips twitched.
"As yesterday! Lucille, I could kill you when I think of those
days. For twenty years your kiss has lain upon my lips--and you
--with you--it has been different."
She laughed softly upon him, laughed more with her eyes than with
her lips. She watched him curiously.
"Dear me!" she murmured, "what would you have? I am a woman--I
have been a woman all my days, and the memory of one kiss grows cold.
So I will admit that with me--it has been different. Come! What
then?"
He groaned.
"I wonder," he said, "what miserable fate, what cursed stroke of
fortune brought you once more into my life?"
She threw her head back and laughed at him, this time heartily,
unaffectedly.
"What adorable candour!" she exclaimed. "My dear friend, how
amiable you are."
He looked at her steadfastly, and somehow the laugh died away from
her lips.
"Lucille, will you marry me?"
"Marry you? I? Certainly not."
"And why not?"
"For a score of reasons, if you want them," she answered. "First,
because I think it is delightful to have you for a friend.
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