He went on to tell her how much he reverenced her character, how good and pure and lovely she was, and how completely she fulfilled his ideal of what a woman ought to be.
Slowly she shook her head. “That shows you know so little of me, George.”
“I know only what you have told me, dearest,” he answered.
Then a moment later he regretted that he had not adhered to his resolve and exercised more self-control. Was he not without means? Yet he had asked her to marry him! Could he tell her in the same breath that he was penniless? No, he dared not, lest she might cast him aside.
Liane stood like one in a dream, her beautiful face suffused by blushes, her eyes downcast, her breast slowly heaving.
He could resist his own passion—he could keep back what he felt—no longer.
“I love you!” cried he.
She stretched out her hands in a sort of mute appeal, and seemed as if she would fall; but in that instant she was again clasped to his heart, and held there with a tender force that she had neither the power nor the will to withstand.
He wished to marry her! Was it possible? And she loved him. With that thought her face was hidden on his shoulder, and she yielded herself to those protecting arms. He felt the shy loving movement as she nestled close to him, and her frame was shaken by a sob.
“My darling—my darling—my own darling!” he cried, triumph in his voice, and passionate joy in his eyes. “You love me—you love me!”