“And I you,” she owned, with such delicious frankness that he was more charmed than ever.
To know that she had loved him for the space of a month, it was bliss unalloyed to the man she had loved for more than two years with a passion she had believed to be the most foolish and the most hopeless the world ever knew.
But that was her secret—one that she would never confess to her lover. Let him think the love dated but one month back, for they would have all time and eternity for their mutual love now. She smiled gladly at the blissful thought.
Two hours went by while they sat there in the grand old garden of the Florentine villa, whispering to each other of their wonderful love—an endless theme, though the love was but one month old, when suddenly he asked:
“What will your mother say to this? Perhaps she would have preferred Augustus Frayne or Lord Leigh for your husband?”
She laughed, and answered confidently:
“Mother will be pleased with my choice, I am sure.”
And then he kissed her for the twentieth time at least, and Fair drew back, saying brightly:
“You shall not kiss me again to-day, sir, and I think you had better stop talking love, and think about your novel.”
“The plots for which you have scattered to the four winds of heaven,” he retorted, as he went down on his knees to gather the scattered clippings.