In single purpose true to one;
Or else the loving soul’s undone,
And, like the curse which blights the land,
The heart’s in variance with the hand,
And found, alas! too late—too late,
Fate linked them to a faithless mate,
They thought the flower of chivalry.”
Even in that moment of fierce anger, this man, who had so much at stake, did not give way to his feelings. Instead he sought to use every persuasion, every argument possible to dispel her prejudice, and then win her heart. But it seemed a useless attempt. She simply grew more and more annoyed with him for his persistence; was actually bored by his eloquent avowal of love.
It was to be a long and laborious task, awakening her interest, to say nothing of hoping for a tenderer regard, he could plainly foresee, and when she turned away from him, with never a word of answer in response to his passionate appeal, he determined upon a clever maneuver to bring her to accepting him.
“You have spoiled my hour at the cataract,” she said, pouting like a spoiled child, “and now I am going back to the house. You shall not accompany me the next time.”