“Dear me,” she exclaimed, between her labored breathing. “I was never treated to anything so rude in my life. Your arm, Sam. Assist me to the piazza. I must have more air.”
“Auntie, you wait till I try it on Virginia. Oh, my! Eh!”
Meanwhile a little scene was being enacted in the conservatory, destined to produce the gravest consequences to others than those directly concerned. After examining the rare plants, Mrs. Thorpe and My Lord had passed out to an attractive bed of massed chrysanthemums, fringed with geraniums, then in full flower—leaving Hazel and Corway alone.
Propitious fate again granted him the opportunity he so ardently desired.
They were looking at some violet buds, concealed by giant Canna leaves and a profusion of palms, when there passed through the girl’s frame one of those mysterious thrills—which man designates magnetic, but which Providence has really made inscrutable to the human understanding.
“I wonder,” she faintly exclaimed, and slowly turning her head—their lips met.
Though stolen, it was delicately done—one of those exquisite little gems of cause and effect, which naturally happen to true sweethearts.
They stood looking at each other in surprised silence.
“I did not grant you that privilege,” at length broke from Hazel, in a faltering manner—her cheeks flushing and her soft blue eyes dancing.
“I could not resist the temptation,” and taking her two hands in his, added: “Hazel, I love you! Will you be mine?”