The man who is standing before you—who loves you—loves you—"
He stopped, for the girl was smiling. And it was not the sort of smile that his words were entitled to.
"I'm sorry, really," she said. "But I can't help it. All I can see now is your triumphant entrance last night—your masterly exposure of that silly necklace—your clever destruction of every obstacle in order that Harrowby and I might be married on Tuesday. In the light of all that has happened—how can you expect to appear other than—"
"Foolish? You're right. And you couldn't possibly care—just a little—"
He stopped, embarrassed. Poorly chosen words, those last. He saw the light of recollection in her eye.
"I should say," he went on hastily, "isn't there just a faint gleam of hope—for me—"
"If we were back on the train," she said, "and all that followed could be different—and Harrowby had never been—I might—"
"You might—yes?"
