The words came to me with the force of an oracle.
"Let me bow my head," I thought, "My patron! My angel!" and as I looked upon her, passionate reverence overpowered me.
"What am I that I dare to love you and raise my eyes towards your pure light? I am not worthy to love you!"
"And you are so beautiful!"
As my meditations were pouring along in this absorbed way, a friend of ours, Grace Carter, a girl of the light, subtly graceful English type and a gay confidence of leadership, came across the room.
"O Mr. Haviland," she cried, "I've been watching your dolorous expression till I determined to learn how you do it!"
I half smiled at her, helplessly.
"It is thoroughly fifth-act. The young man looks that way when he marches around in the limelight moonlight contemplating the approach of the catastrophe. But what have you to do with catastrophes? Off the stage men only have that desperate look when they are in love. I trust you are safe, Mr. Haviland."
She looked so arch that I could not help a laugh, though the effect jarred on my mood.
"You will find me dull, I am afraid," I answered.