But he paid no heed to this entreaty. The soul of the saint and the heart of the man made duel together; and the man won, and exulted in it, and wondered how he dared; but his gaze devoured her willfully. The first embrace of the eyes—more delicate, more deferent, and at once less guarded than the meeting of hands or clasp of arms—he gave her, and did not restrain it. Before it, Helen felt more helpless than if he had touched her. She seemed to herself to be annihilated in his love.
“Happy?” he said exultingly, “you deify me! You have made a god of me!”
“No,” she shook her head with a little teasing smile, “I have made a man of you.”
“Then they are one thing and the same!” cried the lover. “Let me hear you say it. Tell it to me again!”
She was silent, and she crimsoned to the brows.
“You are not sure!” he accused her. “You want to take it back. It was a madness, an impulse. You don’t mean it. You do not, you have not loved me.... How could you?” he added humbly. “You know I never counted on it, never expected, did not trust myself to think of it—all this while.”
She lifted her head proudly.
“I have nothing to take back. It was not an impulse. I am not that kind of woman. I have been meaning to tell you—when you gave me the chance. I love you. I have loved you ever since—”
She stopped.
“Since when? How long have you loved me? Come! Speak! I will know!” commanded Bayard deliriously.