"It seems to me as if there was sarcasm in your voice, Philip. You know that I have always thought more of you than any one else; and if I would not marry you when poor, it was because I dared not. Now we are equal--in fortune, youth, health. My father is so much better. He was out walking this afternoon; the country air has benefited him. The doctor thinks it may be years before he has another attack. You've been very kind to him, Philip. When our fortunes are joined, we can live almost as we please--as well as I care to live. Won't it be charming?" The tapering white hand slid down upon his own. "Very. You remember that trite passage in the Lady of Lyons, which the mob, the vulgar crowd, are still disposed to encore. Supposing we change the scene from the Lake of Como to the banks of the Hudson--listen, Virginia! how prettily sentiment sounds in this moonshine: "'A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower Of coolest foliage, musical with birds, Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder Why earth should be unhappy, while the heavens Still left us youth and love. We'd have no friends That were not lovers; no ambition, save To excel them all in love--that we might smile To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours. And when night came, amidst the breadthless heavens, We'd guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light Stole through the mist of alabaster lamps, And every air was heavy with the sighs Of orange-groves and music of sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth In the midst of roses! Dost thou like the picture?' Go on, Virginia, can't you act your part?" "Let me see, can I recall it?-- "'Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue; Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly-- Who would not love thee like Virginia?'" "A very passable actress you are, cousin. I'd have thought you really meant that, once, you put such fervor in your voice. But-- "'O false one! It is the _prince_ thou lovest, not the _man_.'" "Nay, Philip, like Pauline, I must plead that you wrong me. Already, before my father summoned you, before we heard the whisper of your coming fortune, I had resolved to search you out and take back my cruel resolution--more cruel to myself than to you. I found that I had overrated my powers of endurance--that I did not know my own heart. Dear Philip, will you not forgive me? Remember how I was brought up." Two tears glimmered in the moonlight and plashed upon his hand. They ought to have melted a stonier susceptibility than his.