To this Ashby's answer was, as before, by acts that were more eloquent than words.
"Dolores," said he, as soon as he was able to express himself coherently, "if you had not come, I really think I should have killed myself."
"Did you really feel so badly?" asked Dolores, in a tender voice.
"My heart ached," said Ashby; "it ached for the sight of you. Do you know what heartache is, darling? Do you know what it is to hunger and thirst and long and yearn after some one?"
Dolores sighed. She said nothing, but her head rested more closely on Ashby's breast, and one little hand stole timidly up and was laid lightly on his shoulder.
"Do you know anything about such feelings, Dolores?" persisted Ashby.
"All," said Dolores, in a scarce audible whisper, "all—all—all! But tell me," said she, looking up as though trying to see his face in the gloom, "who was it?"
"Who was it? What a question! You! you, darling! you, Dolores!"
"Not the English maiden?" she asked.
"She!" said Ashby, contemptuously; "she is a doll—a butterfly—a kitten! She is nothing—a poor creature with no brains and no heart! Even her beauty is mere prettiness. There is no soul in her face, no lightning in her glance."