“What more is there than our confidence in each other and our content?” she said.

And, as he did not respond:  “I wonder if you realise how perfectly lovely you have been to me since you have come into my life?  Do you?  Do you remember the first day—­the very first—­how I sent word to you that I wished you to see my first real dinner gown?  Smile if you wish—­Ah, but you don’t, you don’t understand, my poor friend, how much you became to me in that little interview. . . .  Men’s kindness is a strange thing; they may try and try, and a girl may know they are trying and, in her turn, try to be grateful.  But it is all effort on both sides.  Then—­with a word—­an impulse born of chance or instinct—­a man may say and do that which a woman can never forget—­and would not if she could.”

“Have I done—­that?”

“Yes.  Didn’t you understand?  Do you suppose any other man in the world could have what you have had of me—­of my real self?  Do you suppose for one instant that any other man than you could ever obtain from me the confidence I offer you unasked?  Do I not tell you everything that enters my head and heart?  Do you not know that I care for you more than for anybody alive?”

“Gerald—­”

She looked him straight in the eyes; her breath caught, but she steadied her voice: 

“I’ve got to be truthful,” she said; “I care for you more than for Gerald.”

“And I for you more than anybody living,” he said.

“Is it true?”

“It is the truth, Eileen.”

“You—­you make me very happy, Captain Selwyn.”

“But—­did you not know it before I told you?”

“I—­y-yes; I hoped so.”  In the exultant reaction from the delicious tension of avowal she laughed lightly, not knowing why.

“The pleasure in it,” she said, “is the certainty that I am capable of making you happy.  You have no idea how I desire to do it.  I’ve wanted to ever since I knew you—­I’ve wanted to be capable of doing it.  And you tell me that I do; and I am utterly and foolishly happy.”  The quick mischievous sparkle of gaminerie flashed up, transforming her for an instant—­“Ah, yes; and I can make you unhappy, too, it seems, by talking of marriage!  That, too, is something—­a delightful power—­but”—­the malice dying to a spark in her brilliant eyes—­“I shall not torment you, Captain Selwyn.  Will it make you happier if I say, ’No; I shall never marry as long as I have you’?  Will it really?  Then I say it; never, never will I marry as long as I have your confidence and friendship. . . .  But I want it all!—­every bit, please.  And if ever there is another woman—­if ever you fall in love!—­crack!—­away I go”—­she snapped her white fingers—­“like that!” she added, “only quicker!  Well, then!  Be very, very careful, my friend! . . .  I wish there were some place here where I could curl up indefinitely and listen to your views on life.  You brought a book to read, didn’t you?”