“Well, what was it?”
“That though I never loved but this my beautiful lady, once,—only once, for a very little while, I assure you,—I was half disposed to like some one else whom you know.”
Olive thought a minute, and then said, very seriously, “Was it Christal Manners?”
“It was. She led me into it, and then she teased me out of it. But indeed it was not love—only a mere passing fancy.”
“Did you tell her of your feelings?”
“Only in some foolish verses, which she laughed at.”
“You should not have done that. It is very wicked to make any pretence about love.”
“O! dearest Miss Rothesay, you are not angry with me? Whatever my folly, you must know well that there is but one woman in the world whom I ever truly loved—whom I do love, most passionately! It is yourself.”
Olive looked up in blank astonishment. She almost thought that sentiment had driven him crazy. But he went on with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, though it was mingled with some extravagance.
“All the good that is in me I learned from you when I was a little boy. I thought you an angel even then, and used to dream about you for hours. When I grew older, I made you an idol. All the poetry I ever wrote was about you—your golden hair, and your sweet eyes. You seemed to me then, and you seem now, the most beautiful creature in the whole world.”