No answer.
“Helena, do you know what your eyes tell me?”
No answer.
“They say that you will not be cruel enough to refuse me your love.”
“My love!” she murmured confusedly.
“Yes,” he whispered passionately. “I said you were capricious. You are not capricious, but true, loving, and charming beyond expression—a very woman, whom I love, and who loves me in return. Helena!”
All the virginal passion of this island maiden burned like red roses in her cheeks, as Maurice drew her slender form closer to his breast, and murmured broken sentences of love in her ear.
“I love, you! I love you, Helena! I saw your face in a picture, and I loved the face; now I see the woman, and I love the woman. My dearest! my darling! say you love me just a little!”
“I cannot say that,” she whispered, hiding her face on his shoulder.
“Oh, Helena!”