"They always remind me of the velvet darkness of Grace Winans' eyes," she says, meditatively.
"'There's rue!'" he says, and is suddenly silent. The little, irresistible feminine shaft has struck home.
He looks down at the flickering sunshine lying in spots on the graveled path, and reflects on the acute perceptions of woman—this little woman—in particular. She sees his pain, and is sorry.
"I wonder"—stirring up a little drift of pink blossoms on the path with the tip of her small slippered foot—"I wonder if all our life-path is to be flower-strewn!"
A light flashes into his handsome dark eyes as he clasps in his the small hand lying within his arm.
"Lulu dearest," he murmurs, "if you will promise to walk hand in hand with me through life, your path shall be strewn with all the flowers love's sunshine can warm into life."
A shiver thrills her from head to foot; the blue heavens darken above her head; the warm and fragrant air that rushes down the myrtle avenue sickens her almost to fainting. Passionate bliss is always closely allied to passionate pain.
"'To be, or not to be!'" he questions softly, bending over the drooping form, though he feels very sure in his heart what the answer will be.
She is silent, leaning more heavily on his arm, her face growing white and mournful.