“How can you ask me such a question, Pluma?” he asked, evasively; “any man ought to be proud of winning so peerless a treasure as you are. I shall be envied by scores of disappointed lovers, who have worshiped at your shrine. I am not as demonstrative as some might be under similar circumstances, but my appreciation is none the less keen.”
She noticed he carefully avoided the word––love.
In after years Rex liked to remember that, yielding to a kindly impulse, he bent down and kissed her forehead.
It was the first time he had caressed her voluntarily; it was not love which prompted the action––only kindness.
“Perhaps you will love me some day with your whole heart, Rex?” she asked.
“You seem quite sure that I do not do that now?” he remarked.
“Yes,” she said, clasping his arm more closely, “I often fear you do not, but as time passes you will give me all your affection. Love must win love.”
Other young girls could not have made such an open declaration without rosy blushes suffusing their cheeks; they would have been frightened at their free-spoken words, even though the morrow was their wedding-day.
She stood before him in her tall, slim loveliness, as fair a picture as any man’s eyes could rest on. She wore a most becoming dress, and a spring blossom was in her hair. Almost any other man’s heart would have warmed toward her as she raised her dark eyes to his and the white fingers trembled on his arm.
Rex was young, impulsive, and mortal; tender words from such lovely lips would have intoxicated any man. Yet from that faithful heart of his the words did not take one thought that belonged to Daisy; he did his utmost to forget that sunny, golden memory.