"Tell me," he said at last, and in his voice restraint and passion were
strangely mingled, "what is it you are trying to make me understand? In
Heaven's name don't be afraid!"
"I am not," she whispered back breathlessly, "believe me, I am not. But,
oh, Pierre, it's so hard for a woman to tell a man what is in her heart
when--when she doesn't even know that he cares to hear."
"Stephanie!" he said. He unclenched his hands, and slowly, very slowly,
took her quivering wrists. His eyes would have searched hers, but she
was looking at him no longer. Her head was bent. She was crying softly,
like a child that has been frightened.
"Stephanie!" he said again.
She made a little movement towards him, hesitated a moment, then went
close and hid her face against his breast.
"Oh, do make it easy for me!" she entreated brokenly. "Do--do try to
understand!"
His arms closed about her. He held her tensely against his heart, so
that she heard the wild tumult of its beating. But he said nothing
whatever. He waited for her still.
And so at last she found strength to turn her face a little upwards and
whisper his name.
"Pierre!" And then, with more assurance, "Pierre, it is true I haven't
much to offer you. But such as it is--such as it is--and you asked for
it once, remember--will you not take it?"
"Meaning?" he said again, and his voice was hoarse and low.
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