The instant the door had closed, Edith moved towards me, and we became locked in one another’s arms. She was full of inexpressible sweetness and perfect grace. The passion that had at once taken possession of her soul had the force, the rapidity, the resistless violence of the torrent; but she was herself as “moving delicate,” as fair, as soft, as flexible as the willow that bends over it, whose light leaves tremble even with the motion of the current which hurries beneath them.
Love lit within my breast a clear fire that burned to my heart’s very core. Edith could scarce speak, so overjoyed was she at my visit; but at last, as I pressed her to me, and rained kisses upon her brow, she said, looking up at me with a glance of reproach:
“You have not written to me for ten whole days, Gerald! Why was that? Last night I sent you a telegram asking if you were ill.”
“Forgive me, dearest,” I urged. “This last week I’ve been extremely busy. There have been serious political complications, and, in addition, I’ve had a perfect crowd of engagements which duty compelled me to attend.”
“You go and enjoy yourself at all sorts of gay receptions and great dinners, and forget me,” she declared, pouting prettily.
“I never forget you, Edith,” I answered. “Don’t say that. You are ever in my thoughts, even though sometimes I may be too much occupied to write.”
“Do you assert then that for the past ten days you have absolutely not had five minutes in which to send me news of yourself?” she cried in a tone of doubt.
“Well, perhaps I had better admit that I’ve been neglectful,” I said, altering my tactics. “But, you see, I knew that I should come here to-day, so I thought to take you by surprise. Are you pleased to see me?”
“Pleased!” she echoed, raising her lips to mine. “Why, of course I am! You seem always so far away, and I always fear—” and she paused without concluding her sentence.
“Well, what do you fear?”