And still more frequently they passed the evenings in the
McCloud apartments. Philip had been correct in his guess--they were from
Montreal. Beyond that fact he learned little.
As their acquaintance became closer and as Josephine saw in Philip more
and more of that something which he had not spoken, a change developed in
her. At first it puzzled and then alarmed him. At times she seemed almost
frightened. One evening, when his love all but trembled on his lips, she
turned suddenly white.
It was the middle of July before the words came from him at last. In two
or three weeks he was starting for the North. It was evening, and they
were alone in the big room, with the cool breeze from the lake drifting
in upon them. He made no effort to touch her as he told her of his love,
but when he had done, she knew that a strong man had laid his heart and
his soul at her feet.
He had never seen her whiter. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap.
There was a silence in which he did not breathe. Her answer came so low
that he leaned forward to hear.
"I am sorry," she said. "It is my fault--that you love me. I knew. And
yet I let you come again and again. I have done wrong. It is not
fair--now--for me to tell you to go--without a chance. You--would want
me if I did not love you? You would marry me if I did not love you?"
His heart pounded. He forgot everything but that he loved this woman with
a love beyond his power to reason.
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