The very quiet of the place made Gabriel think involuntarily of the strange contrast to be found in “towered cities” amid “the busy hum of men.” Surely never again would he find so sweet a paradise in which to speak his love. The audacity of his childhood filled him now with amaze. What would he not have given for the easy flow of words which had then been at his command?
“This is perfection,” said Hilary, taking off her hat and fanning herself leisurely with a great fern.
“There is one thing wanting,” said Gabriel.
“You are exacting,” said Hilary, with a little rippling laugh. “What more can heart desire?”
“A bliss that would last,” said Gabriel, his voice trembling.
“Ah! but that is asking too much,” she answered, musingly. “Nothing lasts.”
“Nothing but love,” he said, in a tone that made her lift her eyes to his, and speedily drop them.
The colour rushed to her face, but her confusion seemed to cheer him.
“Hilary,” he exclaimed, “do you not know that I love you? You who first wakened love in me—who first made me truly live—surely you must know? I love you with all my being; only be mine—be mine.”
“I am your friend,” she faltered—“have ever been your friend.”