Earle had longed with the intensity of longing to see her again. His life had been one long fever, one fire of desire, one constant thought of her; yet, when he stood once more in her beautiful presence, he was mute, dumb. She smiled at him, and held out her white, jeweled hands to him.
"Earle," she said, and at the sound of her voice his whole soul seemed to wake up. "Earle," she repeated; and the next moment he held those white hands in his, he drew her to him, he kissed her face, her brow. It was pitiful to see a strong man's soul so bound down with a mighty love.
"Earle," she repeated a third time, "it is certainly an excellent thing that I do not wear chignons. How do young ladies manage, I wonder, with chignons and such a rapturous lover as you. Look at my flowers and dress; it is not, really, etiquette to kiss any young lady en grande toilette."
He only laughed at the mocking words. What cared he, when his arm was round her, and he looked into her face again.
"My darling," he said; "my queen rose of the rosebuds."
She laid her hand on his lips.
"That is Tennyson's poetry," she said, "not your own. Are you so very pleased to see me, Earle?"
"So pleased that I cannot find words—so pleased that the wonder to me is that I can bear so much happiness."
"If you think you are too happy, Earle, I can soon alter that state of things," she said, laughingly.
"You cannot alter yourself," he replied. "While you are what you are, and as you are, I must be the happiest of men—I cannot help it. Mattie told me that I should find you changed. Why, my darling, you are beautiful, graceful, noble as a queen. In all the wide world I am quite sure there is no one like you—none."