"I am not worthy," she whispered.
He laughed aloud in the joy of his heart. "Not worthy? I know best about that, Hyacinth. I know that from the whole world I choose you for my wife, my queen, my love, because you are the fairest, the truest, the purest woman in it. I know that, if a king were kneeling here in my place, your love would crown him. It is I who am not worthy, sweet. What man is worthy of love so pure as yours? Tell me, Hyacinth, will you be my wife?"
The grave pallor left her face; a thousand little gleams and lights seemed to play over it.
"My wife—to love me, to help me while we both live."
"I—I cannot think that you love me," she said, gently. "You are so gifted, so noble, so clever—so brave and so strong."
"And what are you?" he asked, laughingly.
"I am nothing—nothing, that is, compared to you."
"A very sweet and fair nothing. Now that you have flattered me, listen while I tell you what you are. To begin, you are, without exception, the loveliest girl that ever smiled in the sunshine. You have a royal dowry of purity, truth, innocence and simplicity, than which no queen ever had greater. All the grace and music of the world, to my mind, are concentrated in you. I can say no more, sweet. I find that words do not express my meaning. All the unworthiness is on my side—not on yours."
"But," she remonstrated, "some day you will be a very rich, great man, will you not?"
"I am what the world calls rich, now," he replied, gravely. "And—yes, you are right, Hyacinth—it is most probable that I may be Baron Chandon of Chandon some day. But what has that to do with it, sweet?"