Andromache was ready to sink with shame, and Rudolph’s heart was in his boots. He looked at her with piteous entreaty, but her lashes rested upon her cheek.
“Andromache, you are not afraid of me, you do not like me less because—because——” and there was something extremely like fear in his own voice and in the tender imploring of his eyes.
“Oh, no, but I do not know what to say,” whispered Andromache, still studying the Smyrna rug at her feet.
“Look at me, Andromache, and say—say something kind.”
She lifted her eyes, and they were filled with passionate admiration:
“Say that—that you love me.”
“I love you,” she said, with adorable simplicity.
“Oh, Andromache,” he cried, suffocated with a sudden thrill, and advanced nearer with outstretched hand.
But she retreated in visible dread.
“May I not have your hand, Andromache?”