His throat was dry, his voice sounded strained. His heart beat hard.
He had burned his first bridge. He kept his eyes on her.
She continued to gaze down the avenue. I think she caught her breath, though.
"Oh—?" she said, after an instant, on a tone that tried in vain to be a tone of conventional politeness. She had been perfectly aware, of course, that it was bound to come. She had fancied herself perfectly prepared to cope with it, when it should come. But she had not expected it to come just yet. It took her off her guard.
"Yes," said he; "and you know whom I am in love with."
This time there could be no doubt that she caught her breath. She had overestimated her power of self-command, her talent for dissembling. She had known that it was bound to come; she had imagined that she could meet it lightly, humorously, that she could parry it, and never betray herself. And here she was, catching her breath, whilst her heart trembled and sank and sang within her. She bit her lip, in vexation; she closed her eyes, in ecstasy; she kept her face turned down the avenue, in fear.
Anthony's heart was leaping. A wild hope had kindled in it.
"I am in love with you—with you," he cried, in a voice that shook.
She did not speak, she did not look at him, but she caught her breath audibly, a long tremulous breath.
He knelt at her feet, he seized her hands. She did not withdraw them.
"I love you, I love you. Don't keep your face turned from me. Look at me. Answer me. I love you. Will you marry me?"