"What was it?"
She veiled the glory of her eyes with their fringe of dark lashes.
"That you loved me . . ." she murmured, "for the moment. . . ."
How irresistible she was, with just that soupçon of coquetry to whet the desire of this fastidious man of the world, and with it all so free from artifice, so young and fresh and pure:—a madonna, yet made to tempt mankind.
"Nay! if you would let me, sweet saint, I would whisper in your tiny ear that I worship you!" he said in all sincerity and truth, and with the ring of an ardent passion in every tone of his voice.
"Worship me? . . ." she queried in mock astonishment, "and Your Grace does not even know who I am."
"Faith! but I do. You are the most beautiful woman on this earth."
"Oh! . . . but my name! . . ."
"Nay! as to that I care not . . . You shall tell it me anon, if you like. . . . For the moment I love to think of you as I first beheld you in the garden this afternoon—a fairy or sprite . . . I know not which . . . an angel mayhap . . . in your robes of white, surrounded with flowers and dark bosquets of hazelnut and of yew, with golden tints of ruddy autumn around you, less glorious than your hair. Let me worship blindly . . . fettered . . . your slave."
She sighed, a quaint little sigh, which had a tinge of melancholy in it.