Gwendoline, with one hand resting upon the mantle, turned her beautiful face, and, stretching out the other, greeted him.
“I bid you welcome,” she said, softly, “back to America.”
“And you,” he asked, “have you been well?”
“Not always,” she murmured.
The fire-light was the brightest in the room,—the lamp behind them worried him with its dimness. He arose and turned the wick higher.
“Now, I can see you better—do you pardon the act? It is so long since I have looked upon your face, Gwendoline,” and he reseated himself and drew his chair close beside her.
She rested her head back against the cushions behind her, and sighed a little.
“This is boy’s play,” thought Emory. “I must speak!” Then he said aloud: “Gwendoline, you know what has brought me—I cannot live without you! This I have come home to say. How fares it with you?”
The lace on her bosom rose and fell, while the white hands were clasping and unclasping, in a silent, anguished way.
“Speak to me!” whispered her lover, bending over her; “say that you feel as I do—let me have from those lips the assurance that ’tis not mine alone, this love that consumes.”