"Do leave all that," she said. "Let us meet in peace."
"So be it," he answered, and continued—
"'Gracie, I swear by all I ever swore,
That from this hour I shall not love thee more,—
What! love no more? Oh! why this altered vow?
Because I cannot love thee more than now!'"
A gentle look came into his blue eyes as he gazed upon her. It was not natural to them, but he had practised it often before the looking-glass, and could assume it at pleasure.
"Still occupied with other men's jests, Peter. If you only understood me! Do you know why I love Dartmoor? Because it leaves me alone. Because it cares no more for me than for the ant that crawls on the grass-blade. So big, so grand, so stern it is. And it always tells the truth."
"You are quite wrong. The Moor loves with a hopeless passion. It has kissed you. I see the print of its kisses on your cheek. It has kissed your little elbow, for I note a dimple there that is new to me."
Grace frowned and pulled up her mitten. She sat upon the music-stool, struck a note or two, and did not answer. Peter sighed.
"You are cold, you are cold," he said. "What does Wycherley remark? 'Out of Nature's hands they came plain, open, silly, and fit for slaves, as she and heaven intended 'em; but damned Love——' There it is! 'Blessed Love,' if you happened to love me; doubly, trebly 'damned Love,' since your heart is set on somebody else."
"Not at all. I love nobody. I hate the word."
"And you are seventeen to-morrow!"