I followed her fixed
gaze across the trackless waste and, shivering, demanded:
"What morbid fancy is this, Desiree? Come, it is scarcely
pleasant."
She rose and crossed the yard or so of ground between us to my
side. I felt her eyes above me, and try as I would I could not
look up to meet them. Then she spoke, in a voice low but
curiously distinct:
"Paul, I love you."
"My dear Desiree!"
"I love you."
At once I was myself, calm and smiling. I was convinced that she
was acting, and I dislike to spoil a good scene. So I merely
said:
"I am flattered, senora."
She sighed, placing her hand on my shoulder.
"You laugh at me. You are wrong. Have I chosen this place for a
flirtation? Before, I could not speak; now you must know. There
have been many men in my life, Paul; some fools, some not so, but
none like you. I have never said, 'I love you.' I say it now.
Once you held my hand--you have never kissed me."
I rose to my feet, smiling, profoundly fatuous, and made as if to
put my arm around her.
"A kiss? Is that all, Desiree? Well--"
But I had mistaken her tone and overreached. Not a muscle did
she move, but I felt myself repulsed as by a barrier of steel.
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