There was something singular in her vehemence. But it made her beauty more remarkable by the life it imparted to it.
"But this has been told me before," she continued rapidly. "Yes, I remember. Your housekeeper asked my servant if I were not in the habit of taking midnight rambles. Oh, how can you justify the rudeness of such questions?"
"They were asked unknown to myself. Be sure, I should never have sanctioned them, if I had questions to ask, I should be bold, and interrogate you, not your domestic."
"Questions to ask! What are you to me that you should question me?"
"Nothing. I am to you no more than your servant is to me. But you are something to me. Is it possible, do you think, that I could look upon your face without interest?"
"How should I know—why should I care?" she replied, her nostrils dilated, her lips curved, her eyes radiant with the light of anger qualified by surprise—of resentment tempered by curiosity. "You say you met me—you are long in telling your story."
"It was one moonlight night. I walked to the fields, and had seated myself, when I saw you pacing the walk by the hedge. Twice you went the length of it—then disappeared."
She seated herself in a chair facing mine, leaned her chin upon her small white hand, and gazed at me with a look of earnestness that was embarrassing in its intensity. The pressure upon her chin made her speak through her teeth as she said,
"You must have dreamed this?"
"Indeed I did not. But I own I dreamt of you before. I dreamt that you looked upon me in a vision. I saw your eyes. They were not more wonderful in that vision than they are in life. Your face was paler than it is now."