"Well," said she, and her voice was very calm, "what is it, Mr. Buckler?"
All my fine arguments and protestations flew out of my head like birds startled from a nest. I forgot even the confession I had to make to her, and
"I love you!" I said humbly, looking down on the floor.
She gave me no answer. My heart fainted within me; I feared that it would stop. But in a little I dared to raise my eyes to her face. She stood in the pillar of moonlight, her eyes glistening, but with no expression on her face which could give me a clue to her thoughts, and she softly opened and shut her fan, which hung on a girdle about her waist.
"How I do love you!" I cried, and I made a step towards her. "But you know that."
She nodded her head.
"I took good care you should," she said.
I did not stop to consider the strangeness of the speech. My desire construed it without seeking help from the dictionary of thought.
"Then you wished it," I cried joyfully, and I threw myself down on my knee at her feet, and buried my face in my hands. "Ilga! Ilga!"
She made no movement, but replied in a low voice: