But looks have broken the fetters of a lifetime's silence before now, and in that moment the secret of two hearts is revealed as clearly and distinctly as if a trumpet-blast had shouted it to their ears.
Their eyes droop. Neither speaks. A moment or two pass on. Then comes a hoarse whisper to Lauraine's ear.
"Come away from this crowd; it is stifling, and that man has spoilt all other singing for to-night."
Without a word she rises and takes his arm. She feels like one in a dream. Senses, feelings—all are lulled to a strange mysterious repose, and now and then her heart thrills with a dreamy rapturous ecstasy.
The memory of that perfect melody is about her still, and follows her out into the shadows of the night, and the dim walks of the quaint old garden. She feels disturbed, perplexed, but almost happy. She has not noticed where he is taking her; only the breath of the cool night air is on her brow, and her eyes, dark and passionate as his own, gaze up at the tranquil lustre of the stars. Under the trees they stand, and face one another at last. He sees only a slender white figure, with the moon shedding its silver rays around it, and two quivering lips that part as if to speak. With a sudden ungovernable impulse he draws her to his breast, and on the trembling mouth spends the pent-up passion of his heart in one long kiss.
CHAPTER VIII
For a moment—one mad moment—Lauraine forgets all else save that she loves. Then she snatches herself away from those fierce-clasping arms and starts back, covering her crimson cheeks with her hands, while at her feet the cluster of roses falls, and lies unheeded.
"Oh, Keith!" she sobs, terrified and dismayed.
He recoils as if a blow had struck him. His eyes—bad blue eyes, indeed, now—burn with eager light. A thousand mad, wild words rush to his lips, but he does not speak them. He is striving for an instant's self-command. "Forgive me," he says. "I—I forgot. You used to let me kiss you in the old days, you know."