Her heart throbs so fast he can hear it, but though he knows suspense is a terrible thing, for a few moments Carlton Conway gives no answer.
CHAPTER VI.
IN THE BALCONY.
“But you!
If you saw with your soul what man am I,
You would praise me at least that my soul all through
Clove to you—loathing the lives that lie.
The souls and lips that are bought and sold,
The smiles of silver and the kisses of gold!”
Zai looks up hastily at her lover, and her eyes meet his.
It is not only at the touching of the lips that spirits rush together, as many believe. Who has not seen the soul leap up into the eyes, and utter there its immortal language far plainer than mortal speech can interpret it—when pride, or honour, or duty, or interestedness has laid an iron hand across the mouth.
At such a moment we seem to realise with startling force the existence of the divine spark prisoned in its house of clay. The power of spirit over matter, the subtle imagination which, without words, can lay bare
“All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame.”
Before Carl can utter a sentence, he half forgets everything in the sweetness of the grey eyes, in the fairness of his young love’s face.
“My darling—my own darling,” he whispers, straining her again to his heart, which, to do him justice, he verily believes is devoted to her. “Why have you forgotten me for—Delaval, Zai?”
Zai starts and flushes.