She gave it, still shrinking, with averted face.
“Won’t you call me Rudolph, dear Andromache?”
“Rudolph,” she whispered, and their eyes met lovingly.
Emboldened by his success, he raised her hand to his lips.
“What a pretty hand, Andromache! You are so pretty, dear one. I love you,” he murmured gently, and steps were heard outside.
CHAPTER XIX. A CRUEL UNCLE.
What are the forces, and on whose behalf employed, that trouble the smooth current of true love? We have seen one pair cruelly separated, and now must these innocents be subjected to infamous treatment? Has the sentence from the beginning been irrevocably pronounced, that if both Adam and Eve prove faithful and worthy, their Eden cannot escape the serpent? Must their bliss be poisoned either by the reptile of Fate or by themselves? Poor sorry lovers, there is no peace, no security for you, even in romance. Your only chance of permanent interest lies in the mist of misfortune. The moment you bask in cloudless content, the wings of poetry are clipped, and your garb is the insipidity of commonplace.