“You have dropped one of your diamonds,” he said, softly. “Is it for me—or for the man in the book?”
She looked up into his face with a happy smile.
“You should know best,” she answered.
Her face was very near to his, and though his came nearer, she did not draw hers away. George forgot the nurses and the children in the distance. If all his assembled acquaintances had been drawn up in ranks before him, he would have forgotten their presence too. His lips touched her cheek, not timidly, nor roughly either, though he felt for one moment that his blood was on fire. Then she drew back quickly and took her hand from his.
“It is very wrong of me,” she said. “Perhaps I shall never love you enough for that.”
“How can you say so? Was it for the man in the book, then, after all?”
“I do not know—forget it. It may come some day——”
“Is it nearer than it was? Is it any nearer?” George asked, very tenderly.
“I do not know. I am very foolish. Your book moved me I suppose—it is so grand, that last part, where he tells her the truth, and she sees how noble he has been all through.”
“I am glad you have liked it so much. It was written to amuse you, and it has done that, at all events. So here it is. Do you care to keep it?”