“And now look at me and tell me how I look, and how you liked the ball. I gave it to please you.”
“You look very lovely, dangerously lovely, and the ball was splendid. Let us go.”
“Do you think me lovely, Arthur?”
“Yes; who could help it? But let us go in.”
“Stay awhile, Arthur; do not leave me yet. Tell me, is not this necklace undone? Fasten it for me, Arthur.”
He turned to obey, but his hand shook too much to allow him to do so. Her eyes shone into his own, her fragrant breath played upon his brow, and her bosom heaved beneath his shaking hand. She too was moved; light tremors ran along her limbs, the colour came and went upon her neck and brow, and a dreamy look had gathered in her tender eyes. Beneath them the sea made its gentle music, and above the wind was whispering to the trees. Presently his hand dropped, and he stood fascinated.
“I cannot. What makes you look like that? You are bewitching me.”
Next moment he heard a sigh, the next Mildred’s sweet lips were upon his own, and she was in his arms. She lay there still, quite still, but even as she lay there rose, as it were, in the midst of the glamour and confusion of his mind, that made him see all things distraught, and seemed to blot out every principle of right and honour, another and far different scene. For, as in a vision, he saw a dim English landscape and a grey ruin, and himself within its shadows with a nobler woman in his arms, “Dethrone me,” said a remembered voice, “desert me, and I will still thank you for this hour of imperial happiness.” The glamour was gone, the confusion made straight, and clear above him shone the light of duty.
“Mildred, dear Mildred, this cannot be. Sit down. I want to speak to you.”
She turned quite white, and sank from his arms without a word.