He saw only that there was a curious look of pain and
fear in her eyes which warmed his friendship and aroused in him afresh
the desire to shield her from the malice of the eyes that watched
them.
"Have I been a long time coming?" she asked, taking the chair he
offered her. "I am so sorry. The Rajah kept me."
Her voice sounded breathless and there was a forced lightness in her
tone which did not escape him. He bent a little over her.
"It does not matter," he said. "You look troubled. Is there anything
wrong?"
She laughed.
"Nothing."
He hesitated, and then went on slowly:
"There is one matter I want to speak to you about, Beatrice. It is the
matter of--our engagement. I think you are wrong to wish it kept
secret. I think it can only bring trouble and misunderstanding. Will
you not allow me to tell every one?"
The white satin slipper stopped its regular tattoo on the rugged
floor. She lifted her face to his and looked him full in the eyes.
"You think it was foolish and unreasonable to wish no one to know? But
I had my reasons--very good reasons. I wanted the retreat kept clear
for you."
"Retreat--for me?"
"Yes, for you. Captain Stafford, why did you ask me to be your wife?"
He drew himself stiffly erect.
"I told you at the time," he said sternly. "I was quite honest. I told
you that the best a man can bring the woman he marries is not in my
power to give you. It was--shipwrecked some time ago.
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