She was sorely disappointed. She had gone over in her own imagination this very scene a thousand times, of the supreme moment he would clasp his arms around her, telling her in glowing, passionate words how dearly he loved her and how wretched his life would be without her. He did nothing of the kind.
Rex was thinking he would have given anything to have been able to make love to her––anything for the power of saying tender words––she looked so loving.
Her dark, beautiful face was so near him, and her graceful figure so close, that he could have wound his arm around her, but he did not. In spite of every resolve, he thought of Daisy the whole time. How different that other love-making had been! How his heart throbbed, and every endearing name he could think of trembled on his lips, as he strained Daisy to his heart when she had bashfully consented to be his wife!
That love-making was real substance; this one only the shadow of love.
“You have not answered my question, Pluma. Will you be my wife?”
Pluma raised her dark, beautiful face, radiant with the light of love, to his.
“If I consent will you promise to love me better than anything else or any one in the wide world?”
“I will devote my whole life to you, study your every wish,” he answered, evasively.
How was she to know he had given all his heart to Daisy?
She held out her hands to him with a charming gesture of affection. He took them and kissed them; he could do neither more nor less.