She listened to the catalogue in silence—save for the eloquence of the lashes of her eyes.
"And if," she queried after a moment, "if I confessed to all that—that you had read correctly—what then?"
He smiled, so certain was he of the falsity of his catalogue: that her character was very different from his delineation.
"At the risk of your again calling me rude," he answered, "I should say you were speaking falsely."
"Why?"
"Because in Nature's library there is a more truthful book to read than that of the hand—the face."
She started; he had commenced the perusal of what he referred to. Her slight blush was hidden; a kindly cloud passed over the moon at the moment.
"I have read that face of yours—read it again and again. I read it each time I see you, I read it even when I do not see you; your face is never away from me now."
His voice had grown very soft. Having taken his courage in both hands he made the first real movement in their little comedy. There followed on his speech a slight pause—an interval filled in, as it were, by the provision of accompanying music: the rippling surge.
She essayed to draw her hand away—not putting too much heart in the attempt. He needed to make no superhuman effort to be successful in its retention.