“Is that like me?”
“It is, as nearly as I can make it.”
“And why do you not sketch other faces?”
“Why! because I—Zoe, I fear you would not understand me.”
“Oh, Enrique; do you think me so bad a scholar? Do I not understand all that you tell me of the far countries where you have been? Surely I may comprehend this as well.”
“I will tell you, then, Zoe.”
I bent forward, with a burning heart and trembling voice.
“It is because your face is ever before me; I can paint no other. It is, that—I love you, Zoe!”
“Oh! is that the reason? And when you love one, her face is always before you, whether she herself be present or no? Is it not so?”
“It is so,” I replied, with a painful feeling of disappointment.