They stood apart, frightened. Dave's gaze was questioning.
Alaire began to tremble and to struggle with her breath.
"Are we--mad?" she gasped. "What have we done?"
"There's no use righting. It was here--it was bound to come out.
Oh, Alaire--!"
"Don't!" She shook her head, and, avoiding his outstretched hands,
went to the edge of the veranda and leaned weakly against a
pillar, with her head in the crook of her arm. Dave followed her,
but the words he spoke were scarcely intelligible.
Finally she raised her face to his: "No! It is useless to deny it-
-now that we know. But I didn't know, until a moment ago."
"I've known, all the time--ever since the first moment I saw you,"
he told her, hoarsely. "To me you're all there is; nothing else
matters. And you love me! God! I wonder if I'm awake."
"Dream-man," she repeated, more slowly. "Oh, why did you come so
late?"
"So late?"
"Yes. We must think it out, the best way we can, I--wonder what
you think of me?"
"You must know. There's no need for excuses; there's nothing to
explain, except the miracle that such great happiness could come
to a fellow like me."
"Happiness? It means anything but that.
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