"I?" she said wonderingly, her drooping head still averted, "but I am—"
"Just the one woman I want to be my own for ever and always, more—far more than I have ever wanted anything in my life."
"But," she whispered, "I am only—"
"The best, the noblest I have ever known."
"But a—scrubwoman!"
"With dimples in her elbows, Hermione!" In one stride he was beside her, and she, because of his light tone, must turn at last to glance up at him half-fearfully; but those grey eyes were grave and reverent, the hands stretched out to her were strangely unsteady, and when he spoke again, his voice was placid no longer.
"Dear," he said, leaning toward her, "from the very first I've been dying to have you in my arms, but now I—I dare not touch you unless you—will it so. Ah, don't—don't turn from me; let me have my answer—look up, Hermione!"
Slowly she obeyed, and beholding the shy languor of her eyes, the sweet hurry of her breathing, and all the sighing, trembling loveliness of her, he set his arms about her, drawing her close; and she, yielding to those compelling arms, gave herself to the passion of his embrace. And so he kissed her, her warm, soft-quivering mouth, her eyes, her silken hair, until she sighed and struggled in his clasp.
"My hair," she whispered, "see—it's all coming down!"
"Well, let it—I'd love to see it so, Hermione."