“Where did you—­find it?” he said unsteadily.

“In its box on your dresser.”

“Do you realise what it means?”

“Yes....  And I am wearing it.”

“Valerie!”

Her head nestled closer: 

“Because I am going to marry you, Louis....  You were right....  If I fail, as your wife, to win my way in your world, then it will be because I have attempted the impossible.  Which is no crime....  Who was it said ’Not failure, but low aim is crime’?”

She sighed, nestling closer like a child seeking rest: 

“I am not coward enough to run away from you and destiny....  And if I stay, only two ways remain....  And the lawful is the better for us both....”  She laid her flushed cheek against his:  “Because,” she said dreamily, “there is one thing of which I never thought—­children....  And I don’t, perhaps, exactly understand, but I realise that—­such things have happened;—­and that it could happen to—­us.”

She lay silent for a while, her fingers restless on his shoulder; then she spoke again in the same dreamy voice of a half-awakened child: 

“Each for the other’s sake is not enough.  It must be broader, wider, more generous ... it must be for the sake of all....  I have learned this....  We can learn it better together....  Louis, can you guess what I did the day your letter came to me at Estwich?”

“What did you do, my darling?”

“I went to Ashuelyn.”

“What?”

“Yes, dear.  If it had not been for your letter which I could feel against my breast I should have been frightened....  Because all your family were together under the pergola....  As it was I could scarcely speak; I gave your mother the letter, and when she had read it and your father and your sister had read it, I asked them what I was to do.

“It was so strange and still there under the pergola; and I scarcely knew what I was saying—­and I didn’t realise that there were tears in my eyes—­until I saw them in your mother’s, too.

“Louis!  Louis!  I wonder if she can really ever care for me!—­she was so good—­so sweet to me....  And Mrs. Collis took me away to her own room—­after your father had shaken hands with me—­very stiffly but I think kindly—­and I behaved very badly, dear—­and your sister let me cry—­all that I needed to.”

She said nothing more for a while, resting in his arms, dark eyes fixed on space.  Then: 

“They asked me to remain; your brother-in-law is a dear!—­but I still had a long day of self-examination before me.  Your father and mother walked with me to the gate.  Your mother kissed me.”

His eyes, blinded by tears, scarcely saw her; and she turned her head and smiled at him.

“What they said to me was very sweet and patient, Louis....  I believe—­I sometimes believe that I may, in time, win more than their consent, I believe that, some day, they will care to think of me as your wife—­and think of me as such, kindly, without regret for what might have been if I had never known you.”