you please, a cigarette."
He supplied this need; held a match; delayed holding it when it had served its purpose, enraptured with the refulgent wonder of that cameo of sweet flesh and blood set against the melting shadows, silver and purple and blue.
With a second low, light laugh, she bent forward and daintily extinguished the flame with a single puff.
"I don't wish to be stared at…"
"Pardon," he said mechanically, startled. "But … why?"
"Perhaps I'm afraid you may see too much…"
"Impossible!" he declared with conviction.
"Odd as it may sound," she said in a mocking voice, "I have my secrets."
Her back was to the moon, her face a pallid oval framed in ebony, illegible; but the moonlight was full upon his face, and she who would might read. His disadvantage was obvious. It wasn't fair…
Lounging, she crossed her knees, puffed thrice and cast the cigarette into the gulf. Abruptly she sat forward, studying him intently. He was disturbed with a singular uneasiness.
"Jack," said Venetia very quietly, "is it true that you love me?"
"Good lord!" he cried, sitting up.
"Is it true?"
He blinked. His head was whirling. He said nothing; sank back; quite automatically puffed with such fury that in a trice he had reduced the cigarette to an inch of glowing coal; scorched his fingers and threw it from him.
Then he gasped stupidly: "Venetia!"
"Is it true?"
She had not moved. The question had the force of stubborn purpose through its very monotony, a monotony of inflexion no less than of repetition. Her accents were both serious and sincere. She was in earnest; she meant to know.
"But, Venetia – "
"Or have you been just making believe, all this long time?"
"It – I – why – of course it's true!" he stammered lamely.
"Then why haven't you ever told me so?"
There sounded reproach, not unkindly, but real. He shook his wits together.
"How could I guess you'd care to know?"
"Do you know me so little as to think I'd resent it, if I happened not to care?"
"I – don't know – didn't think of it that way. In fact – you've knocked me silly!"
"But why? Because I've been straightforward? Dear boy!" – she lifted a hand to him: he took it in trembling – "you're twenty-seven, I'm twenty-three. We know one another pretty well: we know ourselves – at least slightly. Why can't we face things – facts – as man and woman, not as children? What's the good of make-believe? If this thing lies between us, let's be frank about it!"
He hesitated, doubting, searching her face. Her look was very sweet and kind. Of a sudden he cried "Venetia!" came to his knees beside her chair, snatched her hand and crushed it between his own, to his lips.
"I love you – I've always loved you!.."
He felt the velvet of her lips, her breath, upon his forehead; and made as if to clasp her to him. But she slipped back, straightening an arm to fend him off.
"No," she whispered – "not now – not here. Dear boy, get up! Think – this moonlight – anybody might see – "
"I love you!"
"I know and, dear, I'm glad – so glad! But – you made me ask you!"
"I couldn't help that, Venetia: I was – afraid; I hardly dared to dream – of this. You were – you are – above, beyond – "
Gently her hand sealed his mouth.
"Dear, silly boy! Get up. If you won't, I must."
Releasing her hand, he rose. His emotion shook him violently. At discretion, he dropped back into his chair. He looked about him a little wildly, his glance embracing all the weird fantasy of the night: the cold, inaccessible, glittering vault of stars, the malformed and sardonic moon, the silken bosom of the Sound, the lace and purple velvet draperies of the land. Down on the harbour the banjo and harmonica were ragging to tatters a sentimental ballad of the day. From the house came a burst of laughter – Tankerville exultant in some successful stratagem at cards.
His gaze returned to Venetia. She sat without moving, wrapped in the exquisite mystery of her enigmatic heart, bewitching, bewildering, steadfastly reading him with eyes veiled and inscrutable in liquid shadow.
Muttering – "Preposterous!" – he dropped his head between his hands. "I'm mad – mad!" he groaned.
Without stirring, she demanded: "Why?"
He shook his head free. "To have – owned up – let this come to pass. I love you: but that's all I dare say to you."
"Isn't it, maybe, enough for me?"
"I mean – I'm mad to marry you. But how can I ask you to have me? What have I to offer you? The position of wife to a poverty-stricken, half-grown playwright! It's out of reason…"
"But possibly – am I not the one to judge of that?"
"No: I won't have you marry a man unable to provide for you in the way to which you've been educated. It's a point of honour – "
"But I have – "
"You must understand: I've got to be able – able! – to humour your every whim. With things that way – what of your own you choose to spend on yourself won't count. The issue is my ability to give you everything."
"But that will come – "
"When? I can't promise – I hardly dare hope – "
"This new play isn't your only hope?"
"No – "
"Success or failure, you'll keep on?"
"Certainly…"
"Then it's only a question of time."
"But you – how can I ask you to wait?"
"There's no necessity – "
"But it must be." He rose, unable to remain still. "Give me six months: I've got another piece of work under way – and others only waiting their turn. In six months I can – "
"No!"
The monosyllable brought him up sharply. He stared. Her white arms, radiant in that clear, unearthly light, lifted toward him.
"If you want me, dear," she said in a voice tense with emotion – "it must be now – soon! To wait – six months – I – that's im – "
The beautiful modulations of Helena Tankerville's voice interrupted.
Standing in one of the windows to the card-room, she said simply: "An exquisite
