"I wish I had summoned courage to kiss you a week ago," he says, presently. He is inside the gate now, and seems to have lost in this shamefully short time all the hesitation and modesty that a few minutes ago were so becoming. His arm is around her; even as he makes this risqué remark, he stoops and embraces her again, without even having the grace to ask permission, while she (that I should live to say it of Cecilia!) never reproves him.
"Why?" she asks, smiling up at him.
"See how I have wasted seven good days," returns he, drinking in gladly all the beauty of her face and smile. "This day last week I might have been as happy as I am now,—whereas I was the most miserable wretch alive, the victim of suspense."
"You bore your misery admirably: had you not told me, I should never have guessed your wretchedness. Besides, how do you know I should have been so kind to you seven long days ago?"
"I know it,—because you love me."
"And how do you know that either?" asks she, with new-born coquetry that sits very sweetly upon her. "Cyril, when did you begin to love me?"
"The very moment I first saw you."
"No, no; I do not want compliments from you: I want the very honest truth. Tell me."
"I have told you. The honest truth is this. That morning after your arrival when I restored your terrier to you, I fell in love with you: you little thought then, when I gave your dog into your keeping, I was giving my heart also."
"No," in a low, soft voice, that somehow has a smile in it, "how could I? I am glad you loved me always,—that there was no time when I was indifferent to you. I think love at first sight must be the sweetest and truest of all."