“My sweet!” said Robert, and through all our sorrow he smiled and kissed me, “my sweet, sweet Evangeline.”
“But does the Duke know all the details of the history,” I asked, when I could speak—one can’t when one is being kissed.
“Every little bit, it seems. He says he will not discuss the matter of that, I must know it is quite enough, as I have always known his views, but if they were not sufficient, your wild, wicked beauty is. You would not be faithful to me for a year, he said. I could hardly keep from killing him when he hurled that at my head.”
I felt my temper rising. How frightfully unjust—how cruel. I went over and looked in the glass—a big mirror between the window—drawing Robert with me.
“Oh! tell me, tell me what is it. Am I so very bad looking? It is a curse surely that is upon me!”
“Of course you are not bad looking, my darling!” exclaimed Robert. “You are perfectly beautiful—slender, stately, exquisite tiger-lily—only—only—you don’t look cold—and it is just your red hair, and those fascinating green eyes, and your white lovely skin and black eyelashes that, that—oh! you know, you sweetheart! You don’t look like bread and butter, you are utterly desirable, and you would make any one’s heart beat!”
I thought of the night at “Carmen.”
“Yes, I am wicked,” I said, “but I never will be again—only just enough to make you always love me, because Lady Ver says security makes yawns. But even wicked people can love with a great, great love, and that can keep them good. Oh! if he only knew how utterly I love you, Robert, I am sure, sure, he would be kind to us!”
“Well, how shall we tell him?”
Then a thought came to me, and I felt all over a desperate thrill of excitement.