“I am Josephine McCloud,” she said.  “My father has explained to you?  You know—­a man—­who calls himself—­God?”

Her fingers clung more tightly to his, and the sweetness of her hair, her breath, her eyes were very close as she waited.

“Yes, I know a man who calls himself Peter God.”

“Tell me—­what he is like?” she whispered.  “He is tall—­like you?”

“No.  He is of medium height.”

“And his hair?  It is dark—­dark like yours?”

“No.  It is blond, and a little gray.”

“And he is young—­younger than you?”

“He is older.”

“And his eyes—­are dark?”

He felt rather than heard the throbbing of her heart as she waited for him to reply.  There was a reason why he would never forget Peter God’s eyes.

“Sometimes I thought they were blue, and sometimes gray,” he said; and at that she dropped his hands with a strange little cry, and stood a step back from him, a joy which she made no effort to keep from him flaming in her face.

It was a look which sent a sudden hopelessness through Curtis—­a stinging pang of jealousy.  This night had set wild and tumultous emotions aflame in his breast.  He had come to Josephine McCloud like one in a dream.  In an hour he had placed her above all other women in the world, and in that hour the little gods of fate had brought him to his knees in the worship of a woman.  The fact did not seem unreal to him.  Here was the woman, and he loved her.  And his heart sank like a heavily weighted thing when he saw the transfiguration of joy that came into her face when he said that Peter God’s eyes were not dark, but were sometimes blue and sometimes gray.

“And this Peter God?” he said, straining to make his voice even.  “What is he to you?”

His question cut her like a knife.  The wild color ebbed swiftly out of her cheeks.  Into her eyes swept a haunting fear which he was to see and wonder at more than once.  It was as if he had done something to frighten her.  “We—­my father and I—­are interested in him,” she said.  Her words cost her a visible effort.  He noticed a quick throbbing in her throat, just above the filmy lace.  “Mr. Curtis, won’t you pardon this—­this betrayal of excitement in myself?  It must be unaccountable to you.  Perhaps a little later you will understand.  We are imposing on you by not confiding in you what this interest is, and I beg you to forgive me.  But there is a reason.  Will you believe me?  There is a reason.”

Her hands rested lightly on Philip’s arm.  Her eyes implored him.

“I will not ask for confidences which you are not free to give,” he said gently.

He was rewarded by a soft glow of thankfulness.

“I cannot make you understand how much that means to me,” she cried tremblingly.  “And you will tell us about Peter God?  Father—­”

She turned.

Colonel McCloud had reentered the room.