"So that it is hardly necessary, is it, to tell you once more that I
love you?"

She drew a long breath.

"I know. I know you love me."

They had sat down on a divan, at one end of the promenade; and
Corthell, skilful enough in the little arts of the drawing-room,
made it appear as though they talked of commonplaces; as for Laura,
exalted, all but hypnotised with this marvellous evening, she hardly
cared; she would not even stoop to maintain appearances.

"Yes, yes," she said; "I know you love me."

"And is that all you can say?" he urged. "Does it mean nothing to
you that you are everything to me?"

She was coming a little to herself again. Love was, after all,
sweeter in the actual--even in this crowded foyer, in this
atmosphere of silk and jewels, in this show-place of a great city's
society--than in a mystic garden of some romantic dreamland. She
felt herself a woman again, modern, vital, and no longer a maiden of
a legend of chivalry.

"Nothing to me?" she answered. "I don't know. I should rather have
you love me than--not."

"Let me love you then for always," he went on. "You know what I
mean. We have understood each other from the very first. Plainly,