The soft strains
in the room behind them had swelled into music that was passionately
exultant. It seemed to fill and overflow the silence between them. Then
came a triumphant crash and it ended. From within sounded the gay buzz
of laughing voices.
Slowly Wingarde turned and looked at the bent, hopeless figure of the
girl in the chair. He still held indifferently between his fingers the
spray of white blossom for which he had made request.
He did not speak. Yet, as if in obedience to an unuttered command, the
girl lifted her head and looked up at him. Her eyes were full of misery
and indecision. They wavered beneath his steady gaze. Slowly, still
moving as if under compulsion, she rose and stood before him, white and
slim as a flower. She was quivering from head to foot.
The man still waited. But after a moment he put out his hand silently.
She did not touch it, choosing rather to lean upon the balustrade of the
balcony for support. Then at last she spoke, in a whisper that seemed to
choke her.
"I will marry you," she said--"for your money."
"I thought you would," Wingarde said very quietly.
He stood looking down at her bent head and white shoulders.
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