“Entranced in wonder and pleasure, Argemone let her eyes wander over the drawing. And her feelings for Lancelot amounted almost to worship, as she apprehended the harmonious unity of the manifold conception, the rugged boldness of the groups in front, the soft grandeur of the figure which was the lodestar of all their emotions, the virginal purity of the whole. And when she fancied that she traced in those bland aquiline lineaments, and in the crisp ringlets which floated like a cloud down to the knees of the figure, some traces of her own likeness, a dream of a new destiny flitted before her, she blushed to her very neck; and as she bent her face over the drawing and gazed, her whole soul seemed to rise into her eyes, and a single tear dropped upon the paper. She laid her hand over it and then turned hastily away.
“‘You do not like it? I have been too bold,’ said Lancelot, fearfully.
“‘Oh, no, no! It is so beautiful, so full of deep wisdom! But—but—You may leave it.’
“Lancelot slipped silently out of the room, he hardly knew why; and when he was gone, Argemone caught up the drawing, pressed it to her bosom, covered it with kisses, and hid it, as too precious for any eyes but her own, in the furthest corner of her secrétaire.
“And yet she fancied that she was not in love!” [Ch. x.]
“‘Argemone! speak; tell me, if you will, to go forever; but tell me first the truth. You love me!’
“A strong shudder ran through her frame, the ice of artificial years cracked, and the clear stream of her woman’s nature welled up to the light, as pure as when she first lay on her mother’s bosom. She lifted up her eyes, and with one long look of passionate tenderness she faltered out,—
“‘I love you!’
“He did not stir, but watched her with clasped hands, like one who in dreams finds himself in some fairy palace and fears that a movement may break the spell.