"Love, love, love—there's better love, I know!"
—and the next pretending shall "defy the scoffer"; it shall be the love of Jules and Phene—
"Why should I not be the bride as soon
As Ottima?"
Moreover, last night she had seen the stranger-girl arrive—"if you call it seeing her," for it had been the merest momentary glimpse—
". . . one flash
Of the pale snow-pure cheek and black bright tresses,
Blacker than all except the black eyelash;
I wonder she contrives those lids no dresses,
So strict was she the veil
Should cover close her pale
Pure cheeks—a bride to look at and scarce touch,
Scarce touch, remember, Jules! For are not such
Used to be tended, flower-like, every feature,
As if one's breath would fray the lily of a creature?
* * * * *
How will she ever grant her Jules a bliss
So startling as her real first infant kiss?
Oh, no—not envy, this!"
For, recalling the virgin dimness of that apparition, the slender gamut of that exquisite reserve, the little work-girl has a moment's pang of pity for herself, who has to trip along the streets "all but naked to the knee."
"Whiteness in us were wonderful indeed,"
she cries, who is pure gold if not pure whiteness, and in an instant shows herself to be at any rate pure innocence. It could not be envy, she argues, which pierced her as she thought of that immaculate girlhood—