"No, no!" she said agitatedly; "spare me that confession. I have heard it so often; it is so conventional. Let us part friends."
She looked up into my face with that frank, heavenly glance of hers. It shook my resolution, but I recovered myself and went on:
"It is not a conventional confession. I was not going to say I love you."
"No?" she murmured.
Was it the tricksy play of the moon among the clouds, or did a shade of disappointment flit across her face? Were her words genuine, or was she only a coquette? I stopped not to analyse; I paused not to enquire; I forgot everything but the loveliness that intoxicated me.
"I—I—mean I was!" I stammered awkwardly; "I have loved you from the first moment I saw you."
I strove to take her hand; but she drew it away haughtily.
"Lord Everett, it is impossible! Say no more."
The twang dropped from her speech in her dignity; her accents rang pure and sweet.
"Why not?" I cried passionately. "Why is it impossible? You seemed to care for me."