"Heaven direct me," she cried out; "I am so sorely tempted! I used to wonder what people meant when they talked of the agony of death. Now I know."
She was frightened at the vehemence of her emotion; the memory of that caress made her tremble. She dreaded the moment when she should see Eugene alone again, but, woman-like, hoped that it would be soon. Her heart was awakened at last. The sun of love shone in its glory upon her.
It had come to her, this woman's heritage, this dower of passion and sorrow, called love, changing the world into a golden gleam.
How was she ever to calm the fever that burned in her veins? Yes, she loved him. She who had never, until she met Eugene Mallard, known what love meant; she, so young, beautiful, made so essentially for love, and yet whose life had been so joyless and hopeless, loved at last.
Eugene Mallard noticed her avoidance of him during the week that followed. She was trying to think out the problem in her own mind. Dare she drink of the cup of joy that he had pressed to her lips? In her simplicity, Ida thought that she had done much in denying herself a look at him.
If she had been the most accomplished of coquettes, she could not have chosen a method more calculating to awaken his interest than by avoiding him.
"She does not care for me as much as I thought," he told himself; and, man-like, he felt a trifle piqued.
He had fancied that all he would have to do would be to ask her, and she would come straight to his arms.
This was, indeed, a new phase of her character. Yet he could not help but admire her maidenly modesty.
He would give her her own time to think over the proposition that he had laid before her. He would not seek her, would not intrude upon her. He looked at her more during that day than he had during all the time she had been under his roof.