"To Tommy?"
"Yes," laughing more naturally this time.
"Tommy is a more learned person than one would have supposed. Is this the sort of thing he likes?" pointing to Nydia's exquisite song.
"I am afraid not, though he would insist upon my reading it. The earwig was evidently far more engrossing as a subject than either the wind or the rose."
"And yet—" he has his arm round her now, and is reading the poem over her shoulder.
"You are my Rose," says he, softly. "And you—do you love but one?"
She makes a little mute gesture that might signify anything or nothing to the uninitiated, but to him is instinct with a most happy meaning.
"Am I that one, darling?"
She makes the same little silent movement again, but this time she adds to it by casting a swift glance upward at him from under her lowered lids.
"Make me sure of it," entreated he almost in a whisper. He leans over her, lower, lower still. With a little tremulous laugh, dangerously akin to tears, she raises her soft palm to his cheek and tries to press him—from her. But he holds her fast.