It was final; he was in love.
Her intuition told her the truth, of course. There was something in
his look and voice which had not quite been in either on the previous
evening. He had been glad, last night, because she had come to the
drawing-room, as he had hoped that she would; but to-day he was more
than glad, he was happy, merely because he saw her. There never was a
woman yet that could not tell that difference at a glance.
She was proud of being loved by him, and as he walked by her side, she
looked up at the blue sky above the courtyard, and was glad that the
clouds had passed away, for it must be sweeter to be loved when there
was sunshine overhead than when it rained; but all the time, she saw
his face, without looking at it, and it was after her own heart, and
much to her liking. Besides, he was not only a manly man, and strong,
and, of course, brave; he was already famous, and might be great some
day; and she knew that he loved her, which was much to his advantage.
As for being madly, wildly, desperately in love with him herself, she
was not that yet; it was simply a very delicious sensation of being
adored by somebody very sympathetic. Some women never get nearer to
love than that, in all their lives, and are quite satisfied, and as
they grow older they realize how much more convenient it is to be
adored than to adore, and are careful to keep their likings within
very manageable limits, while encouraging the men who love them to
behave like lunatics.
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