She turned her wrist, touching the spot: “Here? You have seen, then, that it is something worn?”
There followed a delicious interplay of eyes. Who would have thought that hers could be sweet and mean so much?
“It is something worn, then? And thrown aside for me only, Charlotte?”
“For him who loves me,” she said.
“For me!”
“For him who loves me,” she repeated.
“Then it is for me!”
She had moved back, showing a harder figure, or the “I love you, love you!” would have sounded with force. It came, though not so vehemently as might have been, to the appeal of a soft fixed look.
“Yes, I love you, Charlotte; you know that I do.”
“You love me?”