“Clara! do you love me?”
There is a pause. She shrinks from looking at him—she trembles with strange contradictory sensations of pleasure and pain. His arm steals round her; he repeats his question in a whisper; his lips almost touch her little rosy ear as he says it again:
“Do you love me?”
She closes her eyes faintly—she hears nothing but those words—feels nothing but his arm round her—forgets Mrs. Crayford’s warning—forgets Richard Wardour himself—turns suddenly, with a loving woman’s desperate disregard of everything but her love—nestles her head on his bosom, and answers him in that way, at last!
He lifts the beautiful drooping head—their lips meet in their first kiss—they are both in heaven: it is Clara who brings them back to earth again with a start—it is Clara who says, “Oh! what have I done?”—as usual, when it is too late.
Frank answers the question.
“You have made me happy, my angel. Now, when I come back, I come back to make you my wife.”
She shudders. She remembers Richard Wardour again at those words.
“Mind!” she says, “nobody is to know we are engaged till I permit you to mention it. Remember that!”
He promises to remember it. His arm tries to wind round her once more. No! She is mistress of herself; she can positively dismiss him now—after she has let him kiss her!