Quietly, with restrained and schooled abandon, his words breathed out. "Jane ... dear ... dearer—dearest——"
Her intuitive eyes read the words that were coming, before his own mind framed them. A sudden blossoming of joy surged within her, so great for a moment that it prevented speech; then, panic-stricken, she wished to postpone the inevitable question, to delay the rapture, to flee away, with the words unspoken, for just a little longer to consider the matter.... She said nothing of this; her silence, blent into the silence of the mountain at the end of the rise before them, was voluble with another message than delay or hesitation.
An agony of doubt racked him. Hadn't he been mistaken all along? Wouldn't she laugh at him, for his presumption in reading even toleration in her eyes, that radiated indifferently upon things unworthy, like himself, and worthy alike? Would he dare go on? He must—even if her laugh shattered the iridescent sphere of his hopes.
An impassioned eagerness to get the words out made his tone forced and unnatural. "Will you have me, Jane? Will you love me—a little? I know I've no right to speak—my affairs are so tangled, and all——"
Then she raised her arm, until the hand was above his head; and her fingers touched his hair gently, caressingly, soothingly.
"Jane...." His voice was rich with reverent unbelief.
"Pelham dear——"
In excess of happiness, he caught the hand beside him almost to his lips; and then, instead, pressed it against his breast, against his heart.
His laugh was almost incoherent. "I was so afraid you'd say 'no.'"
The light shone only on her averted cheek. "I was so afraid ... you wouldn't ask me!"