“My beloved, my beloved!” he murmured—each word sounded like a sob—“I should like to remain with you for ever.”
She did not say a word. She did not need to say a word. He could feel the tumult of her heart, and she knew it.
“For God’s sake, Beatrice, let me speak to you,” he said.
It was a strange entreaty. His arm was about her, his hand was holding one of hers, she was simply passive by his side; and yet he implored of her to let him speak to her.
It was some moments before she could laugh, however; which was also strange, for the humour of the matter which called for that laugh, was surely capable of being appreciated by her immediately.
She gave a laugh and then a sigh.
The carriage was dark, but a stray gleam of light from a side platform now and again came upon her face, and her features were brought into relief with the clearness and the whiteness of a lily in a jungle.
As she gave that laugh—or was it a sigh?—he started, perceiving that the expression of her features was precisely that which the artist in the antique had imparted to the features of the little chrysoprase Eros in the centre of that blood-red circle of the ring.
“Why do you laugh, Beatrice?8 said he.
“Did I laugh, Harold?” said she. “No—no—I think—yes, I think it was a sigh—or was it you who sighed, my love?”