“It is an inalienable right of every man to tell his love.”
“At any rate, I beg your pardon for having spoken mine.”
“I find forgiveness amazingly easy,” said she, laughing. Then, seriously, “Indeed, your scruples are over-nice. The sweetest music that can fall on the ear of a woman is, as Alice says, loving words. Why should we be denied it? What else have we to live for?”
“But I owe it to you—”
“You owe me nothing!” exclaimed she, hastily.
“But I wish to tell you—”
“Tell me nothing! I know what you wish to say, but you shall not say it,—not yet, at least.”
He smiled.
“No; I see you before me, hear your voice; I have known you, such as you are, for months. I wish to know no more, just now. Let me dream on; do not awaken me. Let me float on,” she continued, realistically clasping the gunwale of the Argo, “over rose-tipped waves, careless what shores lie beyond. Let me dream yet a little longer.” And rising from her seat, she dropped on one knee in front of him, and bringing her two hands together, placed them within his. “Not one word. I trust you; I am satisfied,” said she, with a voice low yet ringing, ringing with proud enthusiasm,—a voice full of strange thrills, vibrating, eloquent. This, her speaking attitude, and the impassioned faith that illumined her eyes, fired his breast with an indescribable glow of ecstasy. Pressing her hands between his and raising his eyes, he exclaimed with a fervor that was almost religious,—
“Adorable Mary! I have dreamed dreams, I have seen visions, but none could compare with this!”