She was in a dainty white silk négligée, with cascades of lace and some pale pink bows. She wore such pretty gowns, Laverne thought.
"Do you know that in about a week we shall go away? And I shan't know how to live without you. I love you so! Why do you suppose I should be always longing for you, thinking about you? Last night——"
She gave her a rapturous embrace and kissed lips and brow and eyelids. Sometimes Isola Savedra caressed her this way. But Isola was just a girl, musical, vehement, Spanish.
"I couldn't sleep for thinking of you, longing for you. Shall I steal you and take you away? Oh, if you loved me well enough to come, you should have everything heart could desire. I am so lonesome at times."
"I shouldn't come for the things," she returned, coloring. "And if I loved you ever so much——"
"No, don't say you wouldn't. Oh, to-morrow I shall have something strange to tell you, but now I say over and over again I want you, I want you!"
Laverne drew a long breath. She was half magnetized by the intensity, by the strange expression in the face, the eager eyes.
"I shall be sorry to have you go." She hardly knew what to say. Sorrow did not half express it.
"Don't mind me—yes, it is true, too. But I heard a story last night that suggested such a splendid possibility. I couldn't sleep. And I can't tell you just yet, but when you hear it—oh, you'll be tender and not break my heart that is so set upon it. Something you can do for me."
"I will do anything in my power."