Tears of grat.i.tude suddenly filled her eyes.

"Take this, dear, it belonged to my mother," she said fondly and gave him a circlet of twisted dolphins and he put it on his finger. Then he gave her a brown seal ring, engraved with old Armenian characters.

"I got it in Constantinople, Pen. It's a talisman. It will bring us luck."

They talked on, forgetful of the supper party downstairs, until a waiter came with c.o.c.ktails and champagne that Roberta had sent up, but Penelope would have none of these, saying that her love was too great to need stimulation.

"I must drink to your health, dear," said Herrick, and pouring out the bubbling liquid, he offered her a gla.s.s, but she shook her head.

"No? Not even a sip? All right, sweetheart. I'll pledge you the finest toast in the world," he lifted his goblet. "My love! My wife!"

As Christopher set down his gla.s.s and turned to clasp his beloved in his arms, he realized that there was a curious change in her face, a subtle, an almost indistinguishable change--the sweet radiance had gone. It was the word _wife_ that had stabbed Penelope with unforgettable memories and brought back her impulse to confess. Once more she tried to tell the story of that tragic steamboat, but Christopher firmly and good-naturedly refused to listen. Whatever she had done, her life had been a hundred times finer and n.o.bler than his. Not that he had any great burden on his conscience, but--well--With a chivalrous idea of balancing scores, he mentioned that there had been one or two things that--er--and his embarra.s.sment grew.

Penelope's eyes caressed him. "I'm so glad, Chris, if there is something for me to forgive. Is it--is it a woman story?"

"Well, yes."

"Tell me. I won't misjudge you, dear," she spoke confidently, although a shadow of pain flitted across her face. Then he began to tell of a hotel flirtation--a young woman he had met one night in Philadelphia. She wasn't so very pretty, but--her husband had treated her like the devil and--she was very unhappy and--they had rather a mad time together.

Christopher spoke in brief, business-like sentence's as if desiring to get through with a painful duty, but Penelope pressed him for details.

"What was her name--her first name?"

"Katherine."

"Did you have supper with her--did she drink?"

"Yes."

"Was she--how shall I say it?--an alluring woman? Did she have a pretty figure?"

The soldier looked at his sweetheart in surprise and, without answering, he struck a match and meditatively followed the yellow flame as it consumed the wood. Penelope watched his well-shaped, well-kept hands.

"Did she?"

"I--I suppose so. What difference does that make? Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Of course not." She took a cigarette from his silver case. "I'll have one with you--from the same match! _Voila!_" She inhaled deeply and blew out a grey cloud. "Tell me more about Katherine."

His frown deepened.

"Poor woman! She was reckless. I am sure she had never done a thing like this before. I hadn't either. I don't mean that I've been an angel, Pen, but--" he paused, then, with a flash of self-justification: "I give you my word of honor, in the main I have not done that sort of thing."

She caught his hand impulsively. "I know you haven't. I'm so glad. Now I _will_ drink to--to you." She rose and stood before him, a lithe young creature vibrant with life. "Touch your gla.s.s to mine. My dear boy! My Christopher!"

They drank together.

Then Herrick resumed his explanation. "I must tell you a little more, darling. You see I was sorry for this woman, her story was so pathetic.

I wanted to help her, if I could, not to harm her. So I suggested that we each make a pledge to the other--"

He was intensely in earnest, but Penelope's eyes were now dancing in mockery.

"Oh you reformer! You ridiculous boy!" she laughed.

"It's true, I a.s.sure you."

"I don't believe it. What was the pledge? No, don't tell me! Tell me if you kept it."

He moved uneasily under her searching gaze, but did not answer.

"Did you keep your pledge?" she insisted.

"Yes."

"For how long?"

He shifted again uncomfortably.

"For several months," he began, "but I must admit--"

"No, no!" she interrupted with a swift emotional change. "Don't admit anything. It was wicked of me to mock you. Come, we will drink to the lady in Philadelphia! Fill the gla.s.ses! To Katherine! And poor, weak human nature! Katherine! And all our good resolutions!"

Pen's eyes teased her lover with a gay _diablerie_ as she slowly emptied her gla.s.s, and Herrick's heart quickened at the realization that this beautiful woman belonged to him--she belonged to him. At the same time he was conscious of a vague uneasiness under the increasing allurement of her glances. Were there ever such eyes in the world? Was there ever such a woman? Adorable as a saint, dangerous as a siren!

"There is one pledge I will never break, Pen," he said tenderly. "I'll never fail to do every possible thing to make you happy."

"Will you take me back to Paris, Chris? I want to spend a whole year in Paris with you. We'll go to fine hotels along the Champs elysees, we'll prowl through those queer places in Montmartre, remember? and once you'll take me to a students' ball, won't you, dear? I'd love to dance at a students' ball--_with you_!" Her eyes burned on him under fluttering black lashes--such long curling lashes! "Let's drink to Paris--_toi et moi, tous les deux ensemble, pas?_ Come!" She s.n.a.t.c.hed up her gla.s.s again and emptied it quickly.

A spirit of wild gaiety and abandon had caught Penelope--there was no restraining her. They must sit on the divan under that dull blue light, and talk of their love--their wonderful love that had swept aside all barriers--while she smoked another cigarette. Christopher forgot to be afraid--he, too, was young! _Vive la joie!_

She nestled close to him against the pillows and, as they talked in low tones, he drew her closer, breathing the perfume of her hair. She caught his hand and clung to it, then slowly, restlessly, her fingers moved along his arm.

"My love! My love!" she whispered.

"Sweetheart!" he looked deep into her soul, his heart pounding furiously.

"It was horrid of me, Chris, to make you promise--that," she bent close offering him her lips.

"Promise what?" he asked unsteadily.

"Oh, Chris," she whispered and her soft form seemed to envelope him. "I am yours, yours!"

Then silence fell in the room while she pressed her eager mouth to his.

"Penelope!" he thrilled deliriously.

"Don't call me Penelope. It's so prim and old fashioned. I told you what to call me--Fauvette. That's the name I like. Fauvette! I am your Fauvette. Say it."

Her eyes consumed him.