"Snow is destroyed in the countries where men live," she added, "but it remains pure and intact on high."
"Like it, you are pure," he whispered, as he gazed again at her, enamoured.
Now and then she flushed beneath the ardour of his glance; the blood rushed to the roots of her blond tresses, a tender smile played about the beautiful, chaste mouth.
"They gave you such a beautiful name—Lilian," he told her again, with ardent sweetness.
"Do you really like it?"
"How is it you were given such a beautiful name—Lilian—Lilian?"
"It is an ordinary name in my country, in England," she replied, speaking dreamily.
"It is the name of a flower."
"A great many names of flowers are used for children in my country, in England—Rose, Daisy, Violet. My mother was called Violet—Violet Temple."