"Yes . . . it was a mistake," she said in a far-off voice.

"I wish it hadn't been," he said.

"Why, I was thinking that, too!" she said. "Isn't it a pity that we weren't as old then as we are now! Responsible, I mean, and wanting as much to do right things. That was one thing about it all. I want to do right more than anything else these days; and I think you do, too.

And it wasn't in style then--do you remember our talking it over up here once, when we were having a little friendly spat? But I suppose----"

"I suppose you would never have married me if you'd been so old and wise," he said.

She considered.

"But neither would you have," she objected.

Francis looked up at her suddenly, flashingly. "You know better," he burst out. "You know I'd marry you over again if I were forty years old, and as wise as Solomon. The kind of love I had for you isn't the kind that gets changed."

Marjorie lay for a minute silently. Then she looked at him incredulously.

"But you said----" she began very softly.

"I said things that I ought to be horsewhipped for. I loved you so much that I was jealous. I do think I've learned a little better.

Why, if you wanted to talk to some other man now, even if I knew you loved him madly, if it would make you happier I think I'd get him for you. . . . No. No, I don't believe I could. I want you too much myself. But--I've learned a better kind of love, at least, than the kind that only wants to make you miserable. I _did_ get Pennington for you when you were so ill, and wanted him instead of me. Count that to me for righteousness, Marge, when you think about me back there in the city."

"Then--you mean--that you love me just as much as ever?"

She lay there, wide-eyed, flushed and unbelieving.

"As much? A thousand times more--you know it. Good heavens, how could any one live in the house with you and not care more and more for you all the time?"

"But, then, why did you----"

"Because I was a brute. I've told you that. And because it made me unhappier and unhappier to see you drifting away from me, and then, every time I could have done anything to draw you a little closer I'd lash out and send you farther away with my selfishness and jealousy. I didn't know it was any surprise to you. It's been the one thing you've known from the beginning----"

She shook her head.

"Every time you lost your temper you said you'd stopped loving me. And that n.o.body could love the bad girl I was, to flirt and deceive you----"

"I've no excuse. I haven't even the nerve to ask you to try it a little longer. But believe this, Marjorie; the very hardest thing you could ask me to do----"

She laughed a little, starry-eyed,

"If I asked you to go and do the cooking and cleaning for your beloved men, that you made me do?" she asked whimsically.

He nodded matter-of-coursely.

"It would mean Pennington doing my directing, and I don't think he's up to it; he's a fine second in command, but he can't plan. Yes, I'd do it in a minute, though it would probably mean the job I'm making my reputation on going smash. Do you want me to? If the whole thing went to the devil it would be a small price to pay for getting even another half-chance to make good with you. May I, Marjorie? Say I may!"

He was bending forward, alert and pa.s.sionate, as if it were a chance to own the world that he was begging for. She told him so.

"It is--my world. I mean it, Marjorie. I don't deserve it, and I don't see how you can trust me, but let me do that. Or anything. I don't care how hard or how ridiculous, if it would mean that some day I could come back to you and you'd consider--just consider--being my wife."

"But, Francis! But, Francis, I don't want you to be ridiculous! I don't want you to fall down on your work. I don't want you to do anything----"

"I know you don't. That's the worst of it. And it's coming to me."

She was silent for a little while.

"It hadn't occurred to you, then, that perhaps--perhaps living in the house with you might have made me--well, a little fonder of you?"

She did not know what she had expected him to do when she said that.

Anything but what he did do--sit perfectly still and unbelieving, and look as if she had stabbed him.

"No," he said finally. "That couldn't happen. Don't talk to me that way, Marjorie. It's cruel. Not that you haven't the right to be cruel."

It was Marjorie's time of triumph, that she had planned for so long, in those days when the work was hard and things were lonely sometimes.

But she did not take it. She only put out one shy hand, for it was a little hard for her to go on talking, she was getting so tired, and said timidly:

"But it is true, Francis. I--I am fond of you. And if there's anything to forgive, I have. You know you can't be so dreadfully angry with people when--when you like them. You--why, you don't have to wait and have tests. I'll stay with you now, if you want me."

He stared at her a little longer, still incredulous. Then with an inarticulate cry he was down on his knees beside her long chair, and he had her in his arms, just as he had held her the night before he went away, just after they were married. No, not just the same; for though he held her as closely and as tenderly, there was something of fear still in the way he kept his arms about her; as if he did not really think it was true. He knelt there for a long time, and neither of them moved. He did not call her affectionate names; he only kept repeating, "Marjorie! Marjorie! Marjorie!" over and over again, as if her name would keep her close to him, and hold her real.

She laughed a little again presently.

"It's really so, you know, Francis."

"I don't believe it in the least!" said Francis, in a more a.s.sertive voice than he had used yet. He laughed, too. She looked at the dark, vivid face so near hers, and so changed from what it had been five minutes before.

"Well, you did take a lot of convincing!" she said demurely. "I felt so bold----"

"Darling," said Francis, kissing her parenthetically, "do you think it would be too much for you if you sat on my knees a little while? I can't get at half enough of you where you are. And doctors say that being too long in one position is very bad for invalids."

"You might try," said Marjorie docilely; "though, honestly, Francis, I don't feel any more like an invalid than you do. I feel perfectly well and strong--let me see if I can stand up!"

He really shouldn't--Mrs. O'Mara told him that severely two hours afterwards--but at that particular moment he would have done anything in the world Marjorie requested. He lifted her to a standing position very carefully, and held her supported while she tried how she felt being really on her feet again. It was the first time. Until now, Pennington had carried her in and out, while Francis felt a deadly envy in his heart.

"See, I'm all well!" she said triumphantly, looking exactly, as he told her, like a doll, with her lacy draperies and her shoulder-length curls, and her slim arms thrown out to balance herself. He let her stand there a minute or so, and then pulled her gently over and held her for a while.

At least, they thought it was a while. It was much more like two hours; there was so much to talk over, and explain, and arrange for generally. They decided to stay just where they were, for a little while at least, after Francis's work was done. Marjorie was to get strong as quickly as possible, and they were both, after their long practice at being unhappy, to try to be as happy as possible. And the very first time that Francis was jealous, or objected to any one kissing her hand or traveling from New York to take her away from a cruel husband, Marjorie was to leave him forever. This was his suggestion.

"But I don't think I would," said Marjorie thoughtfully, lifting her head a little from his shoulder. "I never did, did I, no matter what you did to me? You couldn't even make me go when you sent me--I preferred malarial fever."

Francis said nothing to that, except to suddenly tighten his arms about her. He was not yet at the point where he could make a joke of her illness. She had been too near the Valley of the Shadow for that.

So they were still sitting very comfortably together, discussing their mutual life--they had planned as far as the tenth year of their marriage--when Peggy descended upon them again.

Marjorie flushed and made a faint effort to escape, but Francis sat immovably, exactly as if Peggy were not there at all.

"Oh!" said Peggy.

"We've made up," said Francis coolly.