Sylvie was radiantly beautiful. Her face always changed so with her moods. Every feature had a perfect sculptured look, but intensely human,—the straight nose with the flexible, sensitive nostrils, quivering at any sudden breath, the dainty chin and white throat, the red curved lips that seem to smile at some inward, richly satisfying thought, the large lustrous eyes serious as those of a nun, and the calm, clear brow that seemed to index the strength and fineness of the nature. He did not take in any of the occult meanings: to him she was simply a pretty girl whom he could dress in silk instead of lawn.
The small hand had lain on his arm without the faintest movement. Now he took it in his, and pressed it softly. She frowned, and made a slight, repellant gesture.
"Sylvie?" with a lingering intonation that was hardly inquiry.
"Well!" roused out of her quiet into a momentary petulance.
"Sylvie, I love you. Will you be my wife?"
In his most commonplace dreams he had never made love so briefly. He startled himself.
"Don't!" in a short, decisive tone, as if he were merely teasing.
"Sylvie, I am in earnest;" and in his tone the man spoke.
"Then I think you are mistaken." She seemed to look at him in the cool light of invincible candor and honesty.
"No, Sylvie, I am not mistaken," gaining courage that it was to be argument instead of sentiment. "I have had this purpose in my mind for some time, and have solicited your aunt's consent. You have only to say"—