“I am as beautiful as Helen! Well, I am Helen; so you mean I am as beautiful as myself. That is not a compliment.” “What a vain child you are! I am speaking of the Trojan Helen.” “I am not a child. I am nineteen years of age—and a woman.” “I believe that, for you possess all the art of a woman in tormenting a man. Where did you learn it?” “Learn what?” “The art of being cruel, kind, merry, sad, delightful, yet tormenting.” “Do you mean to say I possess all these contradictory qualities at one and the same time?” “Well, you are capricious at times.” “Oh, indeed!” said Helena pettishly, resuming her task. “Then I must be full of faults.” “They are very charming faults, at all events.” “I am not listening, Maurice. I am too busy with this wreath.” “My wreath.” “I did not say it was yours.” “Not in words, perhaps; but then, you see, I can read the language of the eyes.” Helena blushed at this, but, purposely misunderstanding the hint, made demure reply. “Ah, you see my education has been neglected in that particular branch.” “Shall I teach you?” “I am afraid you will find me a bad pupil.” “I don’t mind taking that risk, Helena.” He laid his hand on one of hers with a caressing gesture, upon which she let it remain, but snatched up a cornflower with the other. “Look what a beautiful blossom!” “It is the color of your eyes.” “No, no; I mean this red rose.” “The tint of your cheeks.” “I hate compliments,” said Helena in a dignified way, trying to release her hand from his warm grasp. “Always?” “Yes, always; unless I like the person who pays them.” “And in this case?” “I—I—don’t know.” “Let me read the truth in your eyes.” She looked up with a pretty gesture of mock despair, but, meeting the tenderness of his look, dropped her eyes in confusion, while Maurice, shifting his seat, slipped his left arm round her slender waist, still holding her hand gently. “Helena!” No answer. “Helena, do you know what your eyes tell me?” No answer. “They say that you will not be cruel enough to refuse me your love.” “My love!” she murmured confusedly. “Yes,” he whispered passionately. “I said you were capricious. You are not capricious, but true, loving, and charming beyond expression—a very woman, whom I love, and who loves me in return. Helena!” All the virginal passion of this island maiden burned like red roses in her cheeks, as Maurice drew her slender form closer to his breast, and murmured broken sentences of love in her ear. “I love, you! I love you, Helena! I saw your face in a picture, and I loved the face; now I see the woman, and I love the woman. My dearest! my darling! say you love me just a little!” “I cannot say that,” she whispered, hiding her face on his shoulder. “Oh, Helena!” “Because I love you a great deal.” “My darling!”