96 The Light That Failed “No,” she said shortly, “and I don’t want to. If you think it’s so lovely, why don’t you go and see it yourself?” She raised her face from the soft blackness of the marten skins about her throat, and her eyes shone like diamonds. The moonlight on the gray kangaroo fur turned it to frosted silver of the coldest. “By Jove, Maisie, you look like a little heathen idol tucked up there.” The eyes showed that they did not appreciate the compliment. “I’m sorry,” he continued. “The Southern Cross isn’t worth looking at unless someone helps you to see. That steamer’s out of hearing. “Dick,” she said quietly, “suppose I were to come to you now, — be quiet a minute, — just as lam, and caring for you just as much as I do.” “Not as a brother, though You said you didn’t — in the Park.” “T never had a brother. Suppose I said, “Take me to those places, and in time, perhaps, I might really care for you, what would you do?” “Send you straight back to where you came from, in a cab. No, I wouldn’t; I'd let you walk. But you couldn’t do it, dear. And I wouldn’t run the risk. You’re worth waiting for till you can come without reservation.” “Do you honestly believe that?” “I have a hazy sort of idea that I do. Has it never struck you in that light?” “Ye — es. I feel so wicked about it.” “Wickeder than usual?” “You don’t know all I think. It’s almost too awful to tell.” “Never mind. You promised to tell me the truth — at least.” “It’s so ungrateful of me, but — but, though I know you care for me, and I like to have you with me, I’d —