She laid it at once in his extended palm,—and he slowly closed his own fingers tightly over it. In a couple of minutes, his face expressed nothing but astonishment.
“Is it possible?” he muttered—“can I believe——” he broke off hurriedly, interrupted by a chorus of voices exclaiming—“Oh, what is it?—do tell us!” and so forth.
“May I speak, Madame?” he inquired, bending towards Irene, with something of reverence.
She smiled assent.
“If I am surprised,” he then said slowly, “it is scarcely to be wondered at, for it is the first time I have ever chanced across the path of a woman whose life was so perfectly ideal. Madame, to you I must address the words of Hamlet—‘pure as ice, chaste as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.’ Such an existence as yours, stainless, lofty, active, hopeful, patient, and independent, is a reproach to men, and few will love you for being so superior. Those who do love you, will probably love in vain,—for the completion of your existence is not here—but elsewhere.”
Her soft eyes dilated wonderingly,—the people immediately around her stared vaguely at El-Râmi’s dark impenetrable face.
“Then shall I be alone all my life as I am now?” she asked, as he released her hand.
“Are you sure you are alone?” he said with a grave smile.—“Are there not more companions in the poet’s so-called solitude than in the crowded haunts of men?”
She met his earnest glance, and her own face grew radiant with a certain sweet animation that made it very lovely.
“You are right,” she replied simply—“I see you understand.”