She would feel again
the pressure of a man's lips on the hollow of her arm--that spot which
still bore the tiny mark which once had been a snake-bite. He had come to
her in her hour of need, and though he was a fugitive from justice, she
would never forget his goodness, his readiness to serve her, his
chivalry. And while in her waking hours she chid herself for her
sentimentality, yet even so, she had not been able to force herself to
cast her brief romance away.
Ah, well, she had done it now. The way was closed behind her. There could
be no return. It was all so long ago. She had been little more than a
child then, and now she was growing old. The time had come to face the
realities of life, to put away the dreams. She believed that Fletcher
Hill was a good man, and he had been very patient. She quivered a little
at the thought of that patience of his. There was a cast-iron quality
about it, a forcefulness, that made her wonder. Had she ever really met
the man who dwelt within that coat of mail? Could there be some terrible
revelation in store for her? Would she some day find that she had given
herself to a being utterly alien to her in thought and impulse? He had
shown her so little--so very little--of his soul.
Did he really love her, she wondered? Or had he merely determined to win
her because it had been so hard a task? He was a man who revelled in
overcoming difficulties, in asserting his grim mastery in the face of
heavy odds.
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