gloom among the shrubbery. From here and there in the darkness, from the pavilion set at the edge of the little fall of cliff, came laughter and gay voices. From behind them, through open doors and windows, floated cries in tune with the evening, telling of banter and much mirth over the matter of disguises at which men made guesses. But Beatrice and Bill Steele, their dimly outlined forms vague in the night, were very still. She had noted, and the discovery had set her heart to leaping, that his voice had grown suddenly gruff and that it shook to the words, little, time-worn words, which he had said.
But Beatrice's voice when she answered was as steady as even she could have wished it.
"Is this meant as further insult, Mr. Steele?" she demanded coldly.
"You know better than that," he cried with sudden passion. "Never is there insult in a decent man's offering his love to a woman, no matter who or what she is. I loved you that first day, and wouldn't let myself know. I loved you that day when you came to me in the woods, and would not let you know. Now, I don't care if the whole world knows. I love you, Beatrice Corliss, as I did not know a man could love a woman. Oh, I am clumsy as a fool at telling you, and you may laugh all you please about the manner of it. But of my love itself you must not laugh … for it is the one thing about me that is as good and fine as even you are!"
In a moment he was going to sweep her up into his arms, to crush her tight to him … she knew it, sensed
