“And now, I’ve told you,” he said, with a short breath, “and now I suppose it’s ‘good-by, Lord Neville, I hope you will be happy and——’” His voice broke, and he knelt beside her and caught her hand. “Miss Marlowe! Doris! If—if there is the slightest chance for me! If there is the least bit of hope in the world, give it to me! I’m—I’m like a man pleading for his life! For his life? For more than that—his happiness——” He stopped sudden, smitten silent, for the hand that was free had gone up to her face and covered her eyes, and she was trembling.
She had heard love made to her on the stage, and it had meant—just her “cue,” no more; this was the first time the accents of a real, genuine passion had ever smote upon her ear, and its tones thrilled to her heart.
She trembled with joy, with fear, with doubt, with the almost irrepressible longing to hide her burning face upon his breast, and give words to the cry that rang in her heart, “I love you! I love you!”
“Doris!” he said; “Doris!” and there was truth in his voice. “For Heaven’s sake, don’t cry! I’m not worth it; I am not, indeed! Are you crying? Don’t! I’ll—I’ll go——”
She put out her hand and laid it gently on his arm as gently as a butterfly alights upon a flower.
He caught it and drew nearer to her.
“Doris! Is it possible? Do you—may I hope? Doris! Oh, my darling, my darling!” and his strong arms wound round her, and his kisses fell like hot rain upon her hair and eyelids.
For a moment she surrendered herself to the storm of passion, as a tree bends before the whirlwind; then she put her hands palm-wise upon his breast, and gently kept him from her.
“Oh, wait, wait!” she murmured. “I don’t know——”
“Don’t know! Don’t know whether you love me, you mean?” he said, kneeling beside her, and gazing hungrily in her face, ready to swoop down upon her with renewed caresses.