The middle-aged, stout, heavy lover went bounding up the balcony steps fast as his fat calves and stiff knees would carry him. He drew aside the silk portières hanging across the daughter’s apartment and advanced across the room a little breathless. The girl turned her head but did not speak. Thereupon, something he had not reckoned smote his courage cold. It was the love he had for the fair child in the window seat. He could not touch her. He could not risk turning love to indifference, or indifference to hate.
“How now, my little bride,” he said gallantly drawing something from his gold sash, “here are some gifts I purchased to-day from the Damascus caravans—emerald earrings set in Damascus gold wrought fine as a spider web, and a little silver mirror from an Arab merchant, which shall show your face fairer than Venus’ eyelids penciled for the dawn.”
He had meant to lay the gifts in her lap and take her thanks in an embrace; but somehow he could only open the little cases and shove them awkwardly along the stone window sill.
The girl’s long-lashed eyes filled with tears. She smiled sadly.
“My poor dear Thamyris,” she said gently.
“Not poor,” he interrupted harshly, “nor dear, either, unless I am dear to you.”
“Dear Thamyris—if these gifts are to buy my love, I cannot take them. I would be cheating you.”
He sat down on the window sill beside her.
“They are not gifts to buy your love. They are tokens of my love,” he said, toying with the gold tassel of her sash.
“Then, if they are tokens of your love, I am cheating you, dear Thamyris; for I cannot give you love in return.”