"Come, sweetheart," she said softly.
I could resist no longer. I sprang in; the door slammed, and we were
alone together.
No, not alone, either. The Spencer woman was there with us--before
us--all around us. "I am Armand Dalberg's wife" was pounding in my
brain.
Then I felt a soft little hand slip into mine; a perfumed hair tress
touched my cheek; and the sweetest voice, to me, on earth whispered in
my ear.
"Don't I get my kiss now?"
I flung my arm about her and caught her close--then loosed her sharply
and drew back.
"God help me, Dehra, I may not," I said.
She laughed softly, and again she found my hand--and I felt her hair
brush my face--and her body rest against my shoulder.
"Why, Armand?" she asked. "Why may you not kiss your betrothed?"
"Because," said I, "because----"
"Yes, dear, go on," she whispered.
I drew my hand away from hers. "Did you not hear that woman claim me
as her husband?" I said.
But she only pressed the closer. I was in the very corner of the
carriage now; I could retreat no farther. And, maybe, I was glad. I
think I was.
"But that's no reason," she insisted. "You are not her husband."
"You believe that, dear?" I cried.
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