“I want some water, too,” and before Paul could say a word she had slid off her horse and, gathering up the skirt to her habit, ran to the spring. She pulled off her gloves, and dipping up the water in the hollow of her little hand, pretended to drink it, while it splashed all over her fresh, fair face. Paul swung himself off his horse, and, leaning up against a tree, watched Lucie with adoration in his eyes. She had the unconscious grace of a child, but Lucie was no child—she was a woman of gentle, yet fixed resolve, of strong and tender feelings. She was in love with Paul and had been ever since she took his English book away from him that summer afternoon in the park at Bienville so many years ago; and reading Paul’s mind, as she had read that English book, she saw exactly what was in it,—that he was in love with her and withheld by pride, diffidence and generosity, all three excellent qualities in a man’s love. And Lucie, having much practical American sense in her charming head, had realized that an heiress has to be very prudent in the man she marries, and that of all who professed to love her, Paul was the only one who loved her well and would not tell her of it.
She looked at him, her face dimpling with laughter. He was such a great goose, standing there, his eyes devouring her, and gnawing his mustache for fear the words would come out that he wished to hold in.
“Paul,” she said, in a soft little voice, and Paul, against his will, was forced to respond, “Lucie.”
“Come here,” said Lucie. Paul came—he could no more have held back than he could have stopped breathing. “Lend me your handkerchief.” Paul look his handkerchief out and Lucie wiped her hands upon it, and then, without so much as saying, “By your leave,” stuck it back in the breast of his coat. This Paul thought delightful, but it was not propriety.
“Paul,” said Lucie, “suppose war were raging now and you knew there would be a desperate battle to-morrow, what would you say to me now, if you thought this were the very last interview we were to have before you went out on the firing line?”
Paul Verney was a man, after all, and his reply to this was very obvious.
“I should say, ‘Lucie, I love you,’” he replied, holding out his hand in which Lucie put hers.
“Thank Heaven,” cried Lucie, “at last! I would have proposed to you long before if you had given me the least encouragement, for I made up my mind to marry you just as soon as you made up your mind that you loved me.”
She was laughing, but her eyes were dark with feeling and bright with tears.