And almost appealingly she laid her white hand on my shoulder—her musical accents were low and thrilling—she sighed faintly. I was silent—battling violently with the foolish desire that had sprung up within me, the desire to draw this witching fragile thing to my heart, to cover her lips with kisses—to startle her with the passion of my embraces! But I forced the mad impulse down and stood mute. She watched me—slowly she lifted her hand from where it had rested, and passed it with a caressing touch through my hair.
“No—you do not really love me,” she whispered—“but I will tell you the truth—I love you!”
And she drew herself up to her full height and smiled again as she uttered the lie. I knew it was a lie—but I seized the hand whose caresses stung me, and held it hard, as I answered:
“You love me? No, no—I cannot believe it—it is impossible!”
She laughed softly. “It is true though,” she said, emphatically, “the very first time I saw you I knew I should love you! I never even liked my husband, and though in some things you resemble him, you are quite different in others—and superior to him in every way. Believe it or not as you like, you are the only man in all the world I have ever loved!”
And she made the assertion unblushingly, with an air of conscious pride and virtue. Half stupefied at her manner, I asked:
“Then you will be my wife?”
“I will!” she answered—“and tell me—your name is Cesare, is it not?”
“Yes,” I said, mechanically.
“Then, Cesare” she murmured, tenderly, “I will make you love me very much!”