The very thought, mingling with a vision of hazel eyes and the soft roundness of a white throat, set his pulses galloping.
He opened the casement window, stepping out on to the terrace to cool the fever in his veins. Old Ben Jonson's song rang in his ears:
"Drink to me only with thine eyes
And I will pledge with mine.
Or leave a kiss within the cup
And I'll not ask for wine."
A kiss!
The very thought seemed to bewilder him,—lips meeting his, eyes to dream the same dream into his, the soft clasp of yielding arms, the caress of a velvet cheek against his burning one.
Fool and idiot! Away with such fantasies! Was it likely that such an angel would look at him so? Would—love—him?
He became fierce in his self-contempt, even though the hot blood of youth surged wildly in his veins, ready to beat down all barriers. She love him. Absurd!
Yet stay! Think of those golden hours in Barham woods only that afternoon.
Cupid had been in frolicsome mood then, and yet he could shoot his arrows straight. Standing there in the moonlight alone he was picturing the scene, lingering over the memory of how one bolder sunbeam had been made willing captive in the coils of an errant curl, whilst dimples had danced riotously in smooth cheeks.
Love! love! Golden in the glamour of youth, and none less sweet and true because it was born and matured in the fleeting hours of a single spring day.