“You will speak to me,” he said with feeling.
She turned her fan in her hand—she was agitated, but inscrutable.
“I know you so little,” she faltered, and he was sensible of a sudden reaction of the heart; he had been chilled by the fear that she might actually refuse.
“And I am glad of that,” he said heartily, and with a cheery intonation. “While there is nothing in my experience that is dishonorable, still I feel so unworthy of you that I am glad to have the chance of building myself up into something better than I have been, for you to learn to know. I love you for what you are, but I want you to love me for what I shall be for your dear sake.” His words were enthusiastic, his heart beat fast, his face flushed with eager expectation.
It was impossible not to be flattered. “Nobody that was anybody,” quotha! “He held himself so high! So far,” forsooth, “above a girl without fortune,” the good duenna had said!
Arabella’s pride had stormed the citadel, albeit his own fancy had made the breach. Her pride shone in her eyes, held her head aloft, flushed her fair, meditative, dignified face. He thought with exultation how she would grace all he had to bestow—more—far more.
“My love,” he almost whispered, “I wish I had a crown to lay at your feet; you look like a queen.”
She burst out laughing with pleasure, declaring that Love was indeed a villainous hood-winker, that he should be thus blinded to the aspect of a girl whom he had known all her life, and whom he was now minded to fancy a goddess.
“No fancy—no fancy—it is the truth—the eternal truth!”
“Yes—yes—tell the truth,” Mrs. Annandale cried, catching the last word as she entered the room.