THE YELLOW DOVE
trembling. She had passed through danger valiantly, carelessly even, but now that for the moment danger had passed, woman-like, she yielded to the reaction. He kissed her gently.
“Sh—child. Don’t let it work on you. No bally use. We’re safe now.”
“Yes—safe for the present. That ought to be enough for me. But if anything had happened to you—!” She shuddered.
“But it didn’t”
“Oh, I’m thankful,” she whispered. “Thankful for that—and for you—the trouble I’ve passed through—the pain of my thoughts of you—I’m thankful for those too, because without them I never should have known you—the real you, Cyril. I sometimes think that life deals too easily with most of us to bring out the best that’s in us. I never would have known you in England, Cyril, doing the things you always did.”
He smiled at her.
“I’m the same chap, though. Can’t tell what a fellow will do when he has to.”
“But you didn’t have to. You might have gone to France and sat in a trench. Instead of that you did what was harder—let them distrust you—hold you in contempt—keeping silent and cheerful, while you were doing such splendid things for England.” She paused while she caressed him and said in a proud whisper, “The Honorable Cyril!”
“Honorable!” he smiled. “You’d hardly get von Stromberg to think that.”
“That terrible old man!” she went on clinging to him. “I can see his vulture face now. He would have shot you—tomorrow!”
“But we fooled him—what? Poor Lindberg!”
264
