“I—love you—no!”
She laughed softly as, in spite of his shrinking, her arms enfolded him once more, and her words came in a low sweet murmur to his ear.
“Yes; you love me—as wildly and passionately as I love you. I knew it—I could feel it, though you would not answer my appeals. Look,” she whispered, “it is as I felt; you are always thinking of me. I am ever in your thoughts. But am I as beautiful as that? Yes: to you. But look from the picture to my eyes. They could not gaze so fiercely and scornfully as that. Now, tell me that you do not love me, and I was not in your thoughts.”
She pointed to the features, glowing—almost speaking, from the canvas—her faithful portrait, full of the angry majesty he had sought to convey.
Alas! poor Cornel. Not a lineament was hers.
Armstrong groaned.
“Heaven help me!” he muttered. “Is it fate?”
His hands repulsed her no longer, and he stood holding her at arm’s length, gazing into the eyes which fascinated, lost to everything but her influence over him, till with a hasty gesture, full of anger, she shrank away and sought her veil from the floor.
“Some one!” she whispered fiercely, for there was a step upon the stair.
“The Conte,” cried Dale, startled at the interruption.