"They are the most beautiful eyes in California. They are like the Madonna's. I do not care for green eyes." His black ones flashed their language to hers, and Elena wondered if she had ever been unhappy. She barely remembered where she was, forgot that she was a helpless bird in a golden cage. Her mate had flown through the open door.
The contradanza ends with a waltz, and as Dario held her in his arms his last remnant of prudence gave way.
"Elena, Elena," he murmured passionately, "I love thee. Dost thou not know it? Dost thou not love me a little? Ay, Elena! I have not slept one hour since I saw thee."
She raised her eyes to his face. The sadness still dwelt in their depths, but above floated the soft flame of love and trust. She had no coquetry in her straightforward and simple nature.
"Yes," she whispered, "I love thee."
"And thou art happy, querida mia? Thou art happy here in my arms?"
She let her cheek rest for a moment against his shoulder. "Yes, I am very happy."
"And thou wilt marry me?"
The words brought her back to reality, and the light left her face.
"Ay," she said, "why did you say that? It cannot ever be."