“I was dreaming of you, of course, Florence.”
“O, indeed!” she answered dryly; “I thought perhaps that Eva had got over her headache—her headaches do go in the most wonderful way—and that you had seen her, and were dreaming of her.”
“And why should I dream of her, even if I had seen her?”
“For the reason that men do dream of women—because she is handsome.”
“Is she better-looking than you, then, Florence?”
“Better-looking, indeed! I am not good-looking.”
“Nonsense, Florence! you are very good-looking.”
She stopped, for he had turned and was walking with her, and laid her hand lightly on his arm.
“Do you really think so?” she said, gazing full into his dark eyes. “I am glad you think so.”
They were quite alone in the summer twilight; there was not a single soul to be seen on the beach, or on the cliffs above it. Her touch and the earnestness of her manner thrilled him; the beauty and the quiet of the evening, the sweet freshness of the air, the murmur of the falling waves, the fading purples in the sky, all these things thrilled him too. Her face looked very handsome in its own stern way, as she gazed at him so earnestly; and, remember, he was only twenty-one. He bent his dark head towards her very slowly, to give her an opportunity of escaping if she wished; but she made no sign, and in another moment he had kissed her trembling lips.