"You couldn't help it. Men are like that. And I'm glad you're human.
But--but"--she faltered a little--"I want to feel that you're safe, too.
I've always felt--ever since I jumped into your arms that night--that
you--that you were on the right side of the safety-curtain. You are,
aren't you? Oh, please say you are! But I know you are." She held out
her hands to him with a quivering gesture of confidence. "If you'll
forgive me for--for fooling you," she said, "I'll forgive you--for being
fooled. That's a fair offer, isn't it? Don't let's think any more about
it!" Her rainbow smile transformed her face, but her eyes sought his
anxiously.

He took the hands, but he did not attempt to draw her nearer. "Puck!" he
said.

"What is it?" she whispered, trembling.

"Don't!" he said. "I won't hurt you. I wouldn't hurt a hair of your
head. But, child, wouldn't it be safer--easier for both of us--if--if we
lived together, instead of apart?"

He spoke almost under his breath. There was no hint of mastery about
him at that moment, only a gentleness that pleaded with her as with a
frightened child.

And Puck went nearer to him on the instant, as it were instinctively,
almost involuntarily. "P'r'aps some day, Billikins!" she said, with a
little, quivering laugh. "But not yet--not if I've got to go to the
Hills away from you."

"When I follow you to the Hills, then," he said.