"'Tis the strong hand, not the true heart, which conquers."
"Oh no, it is not!" said Belle-bouche.
"What then?"
"The good, kind heart, faithful and sincere."
Jacques fixed his eyes upon her blushing face, which leaned upon one of her fair hands—the other hand meanwhile being an object of deep interest to her eyes, cast down toward it.
"And should such a heart be wounded?" he said.
"Oh, no!" murmured Belle-bouche, blushing.
"Then do not wound mine!" cried Jacques; "dearest Belle-bouche! light of my heart—that was your portrait! Listen to your faithful——"
Poor, poor Jacques! Fate played with him. For at the very moment when he was about to fall upon his knees—just when his fate was to be decided—just when he saw an Arcadian picture spread before him, in its brilliant hues, all love and sunshine—that excellent old lady Aunt Wimple entered, calmly smiling, and with rustling silk and rattling key basket, dispelled all his fond romantic dreams.
Belle-bouche rose hastily and returned to her embroidery; Aunt Wimple sat down comfortably, and commenced a flood of talk about the weather; and Jacques fell back on an ottoman overcome with despair.