And here ensued another silence while Cleone gazed up at the moon, and Barnabas at Cleone.
But the ancient finger-post (being indeed wonderfully knowing—for a finger-post) well understood the meaning of such silences, and was quite aware of the tremble of the strong fingers that still held hers, and why, in the shadow of her cloak, her bosom hurried so. Oh! be sure the finger-post knew the meaning of it all, since humans, of every degree, are only men and women after all.
"Cleone, when will you—marry me?"
Now here my lady stole a quick glance at him, and immediately looked up at the moon again, because the eyes that could burn so fiercely could hold such ineffable tenderness also.
"You are very—impetuous, I think," she sighed.
"But I—love you," said Barnabas, "not only for your beauty, but because you are Cleone, and there is no one else in the world like you. But, because I love you so much, it—it is very hard to tell you of it. If I could only put it into fine-sounding phrases—"
"Don't!" said my lady quickly, and laid a slender (though very imperious) finger upon his lips.
"Why?" Barnabas inquired, very properly kissing the finger and holding it there.
"Because I grow tired of fine phrases and empty compliments, and because, sir—"
"Have you forgotten that my name is Barnabas?" he demanded, kissing the captive finger again, whereupon it struggled—though very feebly, to be sure.