But to Eliot, love signified something deeper and
more enduring. He wanted all of the woman he would make his wife--soul as
well as body, past as well as future, the supreme gift which only a woman
who loves perfectly can give and which only a man whose love is on the same
high plane should dare to ask.
"I should never be content with less," Eliot went on. "I think if you were
ever to fail me, Ann--" He broke off abruptly, as though the bare idea were
torture.
"But I shan't fail you!" she replied confidently. "I love you"--simply.
"And when one loves, one doesn't fail."
His arms tightened their clasp about her till she could feel the hard
beating of his heart against her own.
"Heart's dearest!" he murmured, his lips against her throat.
Presently she lifted her head from his shoulder and regarded him with
questioning eyes.
"You didn't tell me what would happen to me if I _did_ fail you?"
"Don't speak of it!" he said sharply.
"But it's just as well to know the worst," she persisted laughingly. She
felt so sure--so safe--with his arms round her that she could afford to
joke a little about something that could never happen. "Would you cut off
my head--as Bluebeard cut off the heads of his wives?"
For a moment he made no answer.
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