"
"Very good," she cried exultantly. "It's mere simple arithmetic--the
adding of your adventure and my adventure together. So that's settled,
and you needn't jeer at adventure any more. Next, I don't think there
was anything romantic in Tudor's attempting to kiss me, nor anything like
adventure in this absurd duel. But I do think, now, that it was romantic
for you to fall in love with me. And finally, and it is adding romance
to romance, I think . . . I think I do love you, Dave--oh, Dave!"
The last was a sighing dove-cry as he caught her up in his arms and
pressed her to him.
"But I don't love you because you played the fool to-day," she whispered
on his shoulder. "White men shouldn't go around killing each other."
"Then why do you love me?" he questioned, enthralled after the manner of
all lovers in the everlasting query that for ever has remained
unanswered.
"I don't know--just because I do, I guess. And that's all the
satisfaction you gave me when we had that man-talk. But I have been
loving you for weeks--during all the time you have been so deliciously
and unobtrusively jealous of Tudor."
"Yes, yes, go on," he urged breathlessly, when she paused.
"I wondered when you'd break out, and because you didn't I loved you all
the more.
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