“You are in my arms!” he interrupted, and drew her against him for his kiss. She turned her face away and pressed it into his shoulder, as he held her close, and said:
“We’ll go to Europe, to Italy—that’s the country for you, not this raw Western town where you’re like some exotic blossom growing in the sand. You’ve never seen anything like it, with the gray olive trees like smoke on the hillsides, and the white walls of the villas shining among the cypresses. We’ll have a villa, and we can walk on the terrace in the evening and look down on the valley of the Arno. It’s the place for lovers, and we’re going to be lovers, Mariposa.”
Still she did not understand, and said happily:
“Yes, true lovers for always.”
“And then we’ll go to France, and we’ll see Paris—all the great squares with the lights twinkling, and the Rue de Rivoli with gas lamps strung along it like diamonds on a thread. And the river—it’s black at night with the bridges arching over it, and the lamps stabbing down into the water with long golden zigzags. We’ll go to the theaters and to the opera, and you’ll be the handsomest woman there. And we’ll drive home in an open carriage under the starlight, not saying much, because we’ll be so happy.”
“And shall I study singing?”
“Of course, with the best masters. You’ll be a great prima donna some day.”
“And I shan’t have to be sent by Mr. Shackleton? Oh, I shall be so glad to tell him I’m going with you.”
Essex started—looked at her frowning.
“But you mustn’t do that,” he said with a sudden, authoritative change of key.