"I--I didn't like to have him keep it," Bee murmured, with downcast
face and lower tone.
"Why?" he repeated, so much in earnest that his voice was almost
threatening.
She was for a moment more confused than ever, but rallying she held out
the mask.
"Oh, that I might tease you with it again!" she laughed.
He took the absurd trinket in his hand.
"It is pretty badly dilapidated," he observed.
"Yes," she said demurely. "I crushed it in the carriage on the way home
from the ball. I--I crumpled it up in my hand."
"Why?"
"You keep saying 'why' over and over to me, Mr. Wynne, as if I were on
the witness-stand."
"Why?" he persisted.
He had forgotten all the doubts which had beset and hindered him, the
scruples he had had about wooing, and the fears that she did not love
him. He was conscious only that she was there before him and that he
loved her; that her downcast looks seemed to encourage him, so that it
was impossible to rest until he knew what was really in her mind. The
unspoken message which he had somehow intangibly received from her made
him forget everything else. He loved her; he loved her, and a wild hope
was beating in his heart and seething in his brain.
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