"But _can_ you?" he demanded, a ghost of the old incredulity rising in spite of all.
"I haven't told you about Robert," she said softly. "He has wealth, and will have much more. He loves me. He offered me all, to do with it as I wished. I've known him all my life--almost. He's good too, poor Robert! But that day, after you'd told me that I must go back to New York at once, I--"
"No, listen! I told him that day that I could never marry him. He couldn't understand--like you, Philip. He thought--dear Robert!--he thought that money--I know it's what they want most--so many women. But, Philip, dear heart! Don't you know that if a woman really loves there's nothing she won't do--on her hands and knees--to the end of the world? And if she has love, what else is there--that matters?"
"I didn't know," he answered, "and I couldn't have believed it until--that day in the cave, when you fell ill."
He told her then of the revelation that had come to him, and how he had taken her in his arms, in a fury of love and despair.
"But I thought it was a dream!" she murmured.
"No. I found you then--and myself--and thought it was too late!"
Later, across the table, when Slim Jim had brought in the after-dinner coffee, Haig looked at her gravely, and said:
"May I become very practical for a minute, Marion?"
He paused to reach for her hand, to clasp it on the cloth.
"_When_, Marion?" he asked, leaning toward her.
"Oh, we must talk with Claire about that, mustn't we?" she protested, blushing. Then softly: "She's the only mother I've got, you see. And besides, there's no--"
"No, not even a justice of the peace!" he said, laughing. "We might strap on our old snowshoes, and go to Tellurium."
"Well, listen. Do you know what I've been thinking?"
"Paris?" she repeated, a little startled, after all that he had revealed to her.
"Yes. I've got a little money in the bank in Tellurium, and I--"
"You needn't be so proud of it!" she retorted. "So have I, in New York. So you needn't think it's your money I'm after, sir!"
They laughed, and then he had both her hands across the table.
"It isn't much, I assure you," he went on. "But it will do for a while in Paris. I mean--if you will go with me--to find my old master, or another. You know, Marion, he said to me many times: 'You're going to be a painter some day, _mon petit_; you're going to do big things, if you'll work, work, work.' And so--"