As she herself had said, he was her bird, the spoil of
her own gun, the product of such capacity as she had in her, on which
she was to live, and, if possible, to thrive during the remainder of
her life. Lily fully recognised the importance of the thing she was
doing, and, in soberest guise, had thought much of this matter of
marriage. But the more she thought of it the more satisfied she was
that she was doing well. And yet she knew that there was a risk. He
who was now everything to her might die; nay, it was possible that
he might be other than she thought him to be; that he might neglect
her, desert her, or misuse her. But she had resolved to trust in
everything, and, having so trusted, she would not provide for herself
any possibility of retreat. Her ship should go out into the middle
ocean, beyond all ken of the secure port from which it had sailed;
her army should fight its battle with no hope of other safety than
that which victory gives. All the world might know that she loved him
if all the world chose to inquire about the matter. She triumphed in
her lover, and did not deny even to herself that she was triumphant.
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