"Yes," he said. "Yes, Lenore; we will not trifle with each other, you and I. If you were glad to see me, do not hesitate to say so; it is not idle vanity that prompts the question."
She faltered and turned her head away.
"Why will you press me?" she murmured in a low, tremulous voice. "Do you wish to see me ashamed?" Then she turned to him suddenly, and the violet eyes met his with a light of passionate love in their depths. "But I will answer it," she said. "Yes, I was glad."
He was silent for a moment, then he drew closer to her and bent over her.
"Lenore, will you be my wife?"
She did not speak, but looked at him.
"Will you be my wife?" he repeated, almost fiercely; her supreme loveliness was telling upon him; the light in her eyes was sinking to his heart and stirring his pulses. "Tell me, Lenore, do you love me?"
Her head drooped, then she sighed.
"Yes, I love you," she said, and almost imperceptibly swayed toward him.
He took her in his arms, his heart beating, his brain whirling, for the memory of that other love seemed to haunt him even at that moment.