to turn my hand to something or other that will do to keep body and soul together, and I dare say you, supposing you would care to come with me, might do the same. It's not a very inviting prospect to offer anyone—and there's worse to come yet. I don't believe in marriage. You would have to come with me as my mistress. I might tire of you. You would have no guarantee but my word that I wouldn't bolt from you there, just as I am bolting from justice now. You know the sort of creature I am.' I looked up at her.
Then, in a moment, she was in my arms, kissing me, laughing, crying, kissing me over and over again, and I her, speaking unintelligible sentences, uttering unknown words. A thrill went through me—the same thrill, it seemed, that had gone through me that winter's evening in the farm-house kitchen where Mary kissed me with her soft red lips, the same thrill that had gone through me when I saw Rayne standing there on the station platform, while I was carried away from her.
I pressed her closely to me, my cheek against hers, the tears welling out of my eyes. The stubborn will seemed broken at last. But I was tired, tired in body and soul. Breathless as she was from my embrace, she yet strained me to her with strength, strained me to her when my embrace relaxed, held me when, all things turning and swimming, I would have fallen. In that place of confused and dreamy sensations, I felt her hold, and had some comfort in it. I think I moaned and muttered things scarcely intelligible to myself. At last I opened my eyes. She was smiling at me as a new-made mother might at her wakened child. For a moment I felt the pleasure of that hold and look. Then I loosed myself from her and said:
'Damn it, I must have been fainting.'
She nodded her head at me in her old half-merry way.
'That's just what you did, then!'
'Dear child,' I said, getting up to my feet, and making some steps, 'I'm a fool. Let me see. What did I say to you just now?' But, feeling a little dizzy, came back and sat down on the bed before I said any more.
