She made no answer, and suddenly he moved his chair close to her side. She felt his eyes fastened on her and kept hers on the fire. Her other offers of marriage had not been accomplished with this stifling sense of discomfort.
“I’ve thought,” his deep voice went on, “that you cared for me—a little. I’ve watched, I’ve desponded. But lately—lately—” he leaned toward her and lowered his voice—“I’ve hoped.”
She still made no answer. It seemed to her none was necessary or possible.
“Do you care?” he said softly.
She breathed a “yes” that only the ear of love could have heard.
“Mariposa, dearest, do you mean it?” He leaned over her and laid his hand on hers. His voice was husky and his hand trembling. To the extent that was in him he loved this woman.
“Do you love me?” he whispered.
The “yes” was even fainter this time. He raised the hand he held to his breast and tried to draw her into his arms.
She resisted, and turned on him a pale face, where emotions, never stirred before, were quivering. She was moved to the bottom of her soul. Something in her face made him shrink a little. With her hand against his breast she gave him the beautiful look of a woman’s first sense of her surrender. He stifled the sudden twinge of his conscience and again tried to draw her close to him. But she held him off with the hand on his breast and said—as thousands of girls say every year:
“Do you really love me?”