"Yes," he answered gently, "there was one word—one—that I should have liked it to echo to both our hearts. I should have taken it for a prophecy."
"What word?" asked Precious with innocent curiosity.
In spite of herself she returned his look. Dark-gray eyes met the tender blue ones in one long, lingering, thrilling glance. What did they say to each other?
"How does Love speak?
In the faint flush upon the tell-tale cheek,
By the uneven heart-throbs, and the freak
Of bounding pulses that stand still and ache,
In the tender
And unnamed light that floods the world with splendor,
In the fire
Glance strikes with glance."
With an effort Precious withdrew her eyes from his, the color flaming up into her cheeks, her bosom heaving a low soft sigh, while Lord Chester echoed the sigh and looked away at the distant hills in a strange silence. Yet he had answered the girl's question without a word!
And after that it was hard to make conversation.
At last Precious grew frightened at her own silence.
She felt so strangely, her cheeks burned, her heart beat heavily in the stillness, her lips seemed glued together.
Suddenly he spoke, but without turning his glance from the mountains:
"Pardon my silence. I must seem very dull to you. I was trying to hear the river say your word 'Regret.'"