Wait a minute, Marthy, and let me get out of the room before you open the door." She fled, clutching her work-basket, while Gabriella, turning to lower the flaming wick of the lamp, heard George's voice at the door and his footsteps crossing the hall.
"I knew something would happen," she thought wildly, as she went forward to meet him.
"I saw you pull down the shade as I was going by," he began rather lamely; and she hardly heard his words because of the divine tumult in her brain.

Her heart sang; her pulses throbbed; every drop of her blood seemed to become suddenly alive with ecstasy.

Under the tarnished garlands of the chandelier his face looked younger, gayer, more intensely vivid than it had looked in her dreams.

It was the face of her dreams made real; but with what a difference! She saw his crisp brown hair brushed smoothly back from its parting, his blue eyes, with their gay and conquering look, the firm red brown of his cheek, and even the bluish shadow encircling his shaven mouth.

In his eyes, which said enchanting things, she could not read the trivial and commonplace quality of his soul--for he was not only a man, he was romance, he was adventure, he was the radiant miracle of youth! "Florrie told me this morning that you had come back," she answered coldly, as she held out her hand.
Her words seemed to come to her from a distance--from the next room, from the street outside, from the farthest star--but while she uttered them, she knew that her words meant nothing.