He shook his head.
"Won't you make me your confidante? Am I not worthy to share your sorrows?"
"Don't ask me ... you are right .... I am unhappy. But I cannot tell you wherefore."
"How is your novel getting on? Why won't you tell me?" She pressed his hand as she said it.
He was perplexed, and knew not what to say. Her dark eyes were darting forth fire—her face was so close to his, that he felt its warmth—her loose morning dress, thrown slightly open by the attitude in which she sat bent forward, made a dangerous display of her finely moulded bust; he was surrounded with such an atmosphere of voluptuousness, that his intoxicated senses confused his reason. In that moment he forgot everything but the moment's intense sensation. His eyes answered hers; his hand returned her pressure; he drank her breath, and felt the blood flushing his face.
Both were silent; both feared to break that silence. With irresistible impulse they mutually bent forward till their lips touched, and then clung together in a burning kiss.
She burst into tears, and pressed him feverishly to her, as if in an embrace to express the unutterable fervour of her love. And in this delirium they remained some time, not a word passing, only a few deep sighs, and a fierce pressure of the hand, telling of the fire which consumed them.
Hester was supremely happy. Her doubts were set at rest. He loved her!
Cecil was violently excited, and in his excitement forgot whom he was embracing—forgot his wife—forgot the world. The vague suggestions of his conscience were stifled at once by the agitation of his senses. Hester by a word recalled him to himself.
"You love me, then?" she said, tenderly.