“Then it is time for me to dress. You will not mind waiting here alone?”
“If you would only give me one hopeful word, I think I could wait happily forever.”
“What can I say?”
“Say that you love me.”
“I am striving to discover whether I have always loved you or not. Surely, if there be such a thing as love, we should be lovers.”
He was chilled by her solemn tone; but he made a movement as if to embrace her.
“No,” she said, stopping him. “I am his wife still. I have not yet pronounced my own divorce.”
She left the room; and he walked uneasily to and fro Until she returned, dressed in white. He gazed at her with quickened breath as she confronted him. Neither heeded the click of her husband’s latchkey in the door without.
“When I was a little boy, Marian,” he said, gazing at her, “I used to think that Paul Delaroche’s Christian martyr was the most exquisite vision of beauty in the world. I have the same feeling as I look at you now.”
“Marian reminds me of that picture too,” said Conolly. “I remember wondering,” he continued, smiling, as they started and turned toward him, “why the young lady—she was such a perfect lady—was martyred in a ball dress, as I took her costume to be. Marian’s wreath adds to the force of the reminiscence.”