“Fanny is best in action, and splendid when she runs away. She hasn’t run away to-day, but I think she is likely to before I get home.”
She was thinking of the long ride which she had no intention of taking in Chauvenet’s company. He stood uncovered beside her, holding his horse.
“But the danger, Mademoiselle! You should not hazard your life with a runaway horse on these roads. It is not fair to your friends.”
“You are a conservative, Monsieur. I should be ashamed to have a runaway in a city park, but what does one come to the country for?”
“What, indeed, but for excitement? You are not of those tame young women across the sea who come out into the world from a convent, frightened at all they see and whisper ‘Yes, Sister,’ ‘No, Sister,’ to everything they hear.”
“Yes; we Americans are deficient in shyness and humility. I have often heard it remarked, Monsieur Chauvenet.”
“No! No! You misunderstand! Those deficiencies, as you term them, are delightful; they are what give the charm to the American woman. I hope you would not believe me capable of speaking in disparagement, Mademoiselle,—you must know—”
The water tumbled down the rock into the vale; the soft air was sweet with the scent of pines. An eagle cruised high against the blue overhead. Shirley’s hand tightened on the rein, and Fanny lifted her head expectantly.
Chauvenet went on rapidly in French:
“You must know why I am here—why I have crossed the sea to seek you in your own home. I have loved you, Mademoiselle, from the moment I first saw you in Florence. Here, with only the mountains, the sky, the wood, I must speak. You must hear—you must believe, that I love you! I offer you my life, my poor attainments—”