“You don’t belong to any one else; keep yourself quite separate. You’re mine, mine only,” said Lucian in the short, masterful tone peculiar to him.
“I hate that fellow,” he continued, as he drew her away into the cypress walk; “he’s a bad sort.”
“But now he is going to be married, we shall not see anything more of him,” said Amethyst.
“Have nothing to do with him. You haven’t seen very much of him, have you?”
“Why, I have seen a good deal of him. He has been here so much; but—Lucian, I don’t think I notice any one now-a-days. I’m always thinking of you.”
Lucian looked down at her with eyes which, light in colour and steadfast in expression, had a peculiar unfaltering clearness, pure as crystal, but a little hard. He was rarely tender in word or look, he showed his love for Amethyst by taking possession of her.
“No one else has any right to you,” he said firmly; and, as he took her in his arms, she forgot everything that troubled her, in his kiss.