Her straining hands tightened.  She kissed, the feet she clasped.  “I’m a wicked, wicked woman,” she said.  “I was born—­on the wrong side—­of the safety-curtain.  That’s no—­excuse; only—­to make you understand.”

She would have withdrawn herself then, but his hands held her.  She covered her face, kneeling between them.

“Why do you want me to understand?” he said, his voice very low.

She quivered at the question, making no attempt to answer, just weeping silently there in his hold.

He leaned towards her, albeit he was trembling with weakness.  “Puck, listen!” he said.  “I do understand.”

She caught her breath and became quite still.

“Listen again!” he said.  “What is done—­is done; and nothing can alter it.  But—­your future is mine.  You have forfeited the right to leave me.”

She uncovered her face in a flash to gaze at him as one confounded.

He met the look with eyes that held her own.  “I say it,” he said.  “You have forfeited the right.  You say I am free.  Am I free?”

She nodded, still with her eyes on his.  “I have—­no claim on you,” she whispered, brokenly.

His hands tightened; he brought her nearer to him.  “And when that dream of yours comes true,” he said, “what then?  What then?”

Her face quivered painfully at the question.  She swallowed once or twice spasmodically, like a hurt child trying not to cry.

“That’s—­nobody’s business but mine,” she said.

A very curious smile drew Merryon’s mouth.  “I thought I had had something to do with it,” he said.  “I think I am entitled to part-ownership, anyway.”

She shook her head, albeit she was very close to his breast.  “You’re not, Billikins!” she declared, with vehemence.  “You only say that—­out of pity.  And I don’t want pity.  I—­I’d rather you hated me than that!  Miles rather!”

His arms went round her.  He uttered a queer, passionate laugh and drew her to his heart.  “And what if I offer you—­love?” he said.  “Have you no use for that either, my wife—­my wife?”

She turned and clung to him, clung fast and desperately, as a drowning person clings to a spar.  “But I’m not, Billikins!  I’m not!” she whispered, with her face hidden.

“You shall be,” he made steadfast answer.  “Before God you shall be.”

“Ah, do you believe in God?” she murmured.

“I do,” he said, firmly.

She gave a little sob.  “Oh, Billikins, so do I. At least, I think I do; but I’m half afraid, even now, though I did try to do—­the right thing.  I shall only know for certain—­when the dream comes true.”  Her face came upwards, her lips moved softly against his neck.  “Darling,” she whispered, “don’t you hope—­it’ll be—­a boy?”

He bent his head mutely.  Somehow speech was difficult.

But Puck was not wanting speech of him just then.  She turned her red lips to his.  “But even if it’s a girl, darling, it won’t matter, for she’ll be born on the right side of the safety-curtain now, thanks to your goodness, your generosity.”