One touch of colour
brightened the scene for a moment, when a girl with a yellow
handkerchief tied round her head passed along, carrying a huge flat
basket overflowing with bunches of purple violets, and as Fontenelle
caught the hue, and imagined the fragrance of the flowers, he was
surprised to feel his eyes smart with a sudden sting of tears. The
picture of Sylvie Hermenstein, with her child-like head, fair hair,
and deep blue eyes, floated before him,--she was fond of violets,
and whenever she wore them, their odour seemed to be the natural
exhalation of her sweet and spirituelle personality.
"She is much too good for me!" he said half aloud, "To be perfectly
honest with myself, I know I have no stability of character, and I
cannot imagine myself remaining constant to any woman for more than
six months. And the best way is to be perfectly straight-forward
about it."
He sat down again, and without taking any more thought wrote
straight from the heart of his present humour, addressing her by the
name he had once playfully bestowed upon her.
"Enchanteresse! I am here in Rome, and this brief letter is to ask,
without preamble or apology, whether you will do me the infinite
honour to become my wife.
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