Nell’s look was far away. “Is love so beautiful?” she murmured softly. Her eye fell upon her sceptre-rose. “Yea, I begin to think it is.” She mused a moment, until the silence seemed to awaken her. She looked into Hart’s eyes again, sadly but firmly, then spoke as with an effort: “You paint the picture well, dear Jack. Paint on.” Her hand waved commandingly.
“I could not paint ill with such a model,” said he, his voice full of adoration.
“Well said,” she replied; “and by my troth, I have relented like you, dear Jack. I admit you too can act–and marvellously well.” She took his trembling hand and descended from the throne. He tried once again to embrace her, but she avoided him as before.
“Is’t true?” he asked, eagerly, without observing the hidden meaning in her voice.
“’Tis true, indeed–with proper emphasis and proper art and proper intonation.” She crossed the room, Hart following her.
“I scarce can live for joy,” he breathed.
Nell leaned back upon the table and looked knowingly and deeply into Hart’s eyes. Her voice grew very low, but clear and full of meaning.
“In faith,” she said, “I trow and sadly speak but true; for I am sad at times–yea–very sad–when I observe, with all my woman’s wiles and arts, I cannot act the hypocrite like men.”
“What mean you, darling cynic?” asked he, jocosely.
“Darling!” she cried, repeating the word, with a peculiar look. “To tell two girls within the hour you love each to the death would be in me hypocrisy, I admit, beyond my art; but you men can do such things with conscience clear.”