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<h2 id="id01133" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XXX</h2> My hands in his, Selwyn looked long at me, then again drew me to him, again raised my face to his. "A thousand times I've asked. A thousand times could give myself no answer. Why did you wire me to come back, Danny?" "You were staying too long." He smiled. "No; it was not that. There was something else. What was it?" "I wanted to see you." He shook his head. "What was it? Why did you send for me?" "To—tell you I would marry you whenever you wish me to—" His face whitened and the grip of his hands hurt. Presently he spoke again. "But there was something else. You had other reasons. Surely between us there is to be complete and perfect understanding. What is it, Danny?" I drew away and motioned him to sit beside me on the sofa. In the firelit room faint fragrance of the flowers with which he kept it filled crept to us, and around it we both glanced as if its spirit were not intangible; and at unspoken thought his hands again held mine. "You sent for me—" He leaned toward me. "Because I heard—an unbelievable thing. David Guard tells me—you have sold—your house. I can think of nothing else. Tell me it is not true, Selwyn! Surely it is not true!" "It is true." With a little cry my fingers interlaced with his and words died on my lips. As quietly as if no fight had been fought, no sleepless nights endured, no surrender made at cost of pride beyond computing, he answered me, but in his face was that which made me turn my face away, and in silence I clung to him. The room grew still, so still we could hear each other's breathing, quick and unsteady, then again I looked up at him. "But why, Selwyn? Why did you sell your house?" "You would not be happy in it. You do not care for it. I am ready now to live—wherever you wish." "But I am ready, too, to live—where you wish. Don't you see it does not matter where one lives? What matters is one must be very sure—one cannot live apart, and that one's spirit must have chance. Why did you not tell me, Selwyn? Why did you do this without letting me know?" "You would have told me not to do it; would not have consented. There was no other way to be sure that I was willing—to do my part. I know now there is something to be done, know I must no longer live behind high walls." "But the house will be needed when the walls come down! It is not where one lives, but how, that counts. You must not sell your house." "But I have sold it—" Something of the old impatience was in his voice, then the frown faded. "There was no other way—to be sure. Were the walls down— I did not think, perhaps, that walls could be anywhere. It is too late now. The house was sold while I was away. The papers will be signed next week." Again the room grew still and I made effort to think quickly, definitely. I was not willing that Selwyn should make such sacrifice for me. I would let the sunshine into his house and love it when its cold aloofness became friendly warmth, and together we could learn in it what life would teach. The house must not be sold, but how prevent? I bent my head down to the violets on my breast, drew in deep breath. Suddenly a thought came to me. I looked up. "When a man sells a piece of property doesn't his wife have to sign the papers as well as himself?" "She does." Selwyn smiled. "And the sale couldn't be consummated unless she signed them?" "It could not. You know the law." Again he smiled. "Not having a wife—" "But you will have—before those papers are ready to be signed. I am not going to sign them. I mean— Don't you see what I mean?" "I'm not quite sure I do." Selwyn's voice was grave, uncertain. "Is it that—" "We will have to be married next week and then you can tell the party who wants your house that your wife does not wish it to be sold. Put the blame on me. It would be disappointing to many people if there was not something, even about my marriage, for which they could criticize me. You mustn't sell the house, Selwyn. That is why I wired you to come. I was afraid it might be too late—if I waited." Still doubting, Selwyn looked at me as if it could not be true, that which I was saying, and again the room grew still. Then— Presently, and after a long and understanding while, he broke its stillness, though when he spoke it was difficult to hear him. "We will always keep them, these rooms in Scarborough Square. We will need them as well as the house without its walls. And I— You must have patience with me, Danny. Are you sure you have enough?" "I have not quite as much as you will need for me. And yet—when there is love enough there is enough of all things else. We have waited long to be sure. Surely—oh, surely now—" "We know?" He bent lower. "Yes, I think now—we know." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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