Aunt Rebecca leaned back in the arm-chair, faintly smiling, while the old, old words that thousands of lovers have thrilled with pain and hopes and dreams beyond their own power of speech and offered to their sweethearts, rose, winged by the eternal longing:
“Y si te mueve á lastima mi eterno padecer,
Como te amo, amame, bellissima mujer!
Como te amo, amame, bellissima mujer!”
“And what does it mean in English, Bertie?” said Mrs. Melville. “Can’t you translate it?”
“Shall I?” said the colonel, his voice was careless enough, but not so the eyes which looked up at Janet Smith.
“Not to-night, please,” said she. “I—I think Mr. Keatcham is expecting me to read to him a little. Good night. Thank you, Colonel Winter.”
She was on her feet as she spoke; and Winter did not try to detain her; he had held her hand; and he had felt its shy pressure and caught a fleeting, frightened, very beautiful glance. His dark face paled with the intensity of his emotion.
Janet moved away, quietly and lightly, with no break in her composure; but as she passed Mrs. Winter she bent and kissed her. And when Archie would have run after her a delicate jeweled hand was laid on his arm. “Not to-night, laddie; I want you to help me down the steps.”
With her hand on the boy’s shoulder she came up to Rupert, and inclined her handsome head in Janet’s direction. “I think, by rights, that kiss belonged to you, mon enfant,” said she.