“Without exception!”
“Then he hates me?”
“I did not say that—” I answered quickly—“No one could hate you, Lady Sibyl,—but truly, as far as Prince Rimânez is concerned, I expect he does not abate his aversion to womankind (which is his chronic malady) even for you.”
“So he will never marry?” she said musingly.
I laughed. “Oh, never! That you may be quite sure of.”
Still playing with the roses near her, she relapsed into silence. Her breath came and went quickly; I saw her long eyelashes quiver against the pale rose-leaf tint of her cheeks,—the pure outline of her delicate profile suggested to my mind one of Fra Angelico’s meditative saints or angels. All at once, while I yet watched her admiringly, she suddenly sprang erect, crushing a rose in her hand,—her head thrown back, her eyes flashing, her whole frame trembling.
“Oh, I cannot bear it!” she cried wildly—“I cannot bear it!”
I started up astonished, and confronted her.
“Sibyl!”
[p 199]
“Oh, why don’t you speak, and fill up the measure of my degradation!” she went on passionately—“Why don’t you tell me, as you tell my father, your purpose in coming here?—why don’t you say to me, as you say to him, that your sovereign choice has fastened upon me,—that I am the woman out of all the world you have elected to marry! Look at me!” and she raised her arms with a tragic gesture; “Is there any flaw in the piece of goods you wish to purchase? This face is deemed worthy of the fashionable photographer’s pains; worthy of being sold for a shilling as one of England’s ‘beauties,’—this figure has served as a model for the showing-off of many a modiste’s costume, purchased at half-cost on the understanding that I must state to my circle of acquaintance the name of the maker or designer,—these eyes, these lips, these arms are all yours for the buying! Why do you expose me to the shame of dallying over your bargain?—by hesitating and considering as to whether, after all, I am worthy of your gold!”