"Oh, I'm so glad you told me," she whispered tremulously. "I'm so glad."
He gathered her closely to him. His lips were against her forehead.
"It makes all the difference, dear, does it?"
"Yes," she whispered back, clinging faster. "Just all the difference in
the world, because--because it was that afternoon--I began--to want--you
too."
And there in the darkness, with the dim forest all about them, she
turned her lips to meet her husband's first kiss.
* * * * *
A Question of Trust
I
Pierre Dumaresq stood gazing out to the hard blue line of the horizon
with a frown between his brows. The glare upon the water was intense,
but he stared into it with fixed, unflinching eyes, unconscious of
discomfort.
He held a supple riding-switch in his hands, at which his fingers
strained and twisted continually, as though somewhere in the inner man
there burned a fierce impatience. But his dark face was as immovable as
though it had been carved in bronze. A tropical sun had made him even
darker than Nature had intended him to be, a fact to which those fixed
eyes testified, for they shone like steel in the sunlight, in curious
contrast to his swarthy skin. His hair was black, cropped close about a
bullet head, which was set on his broad shoulders with an arrogance that
gave him a peculiarly aggressive air.
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