I went home, and thought about
you all day long."
"Did you?" she asked, wonderingly. "How very strange!"
"It does not seem strange to me," he observed. "Before I had looked at
you three minutes I felt as though I had known you all my life. How long
have we been talking here? Ten minutes, perhaps--yet I feel as though
already there is something that has cut us off from the rest of the
world, and left us alone together. There is no accounting for such
strange feelings as these."
"No," she replied, dreamily, "I do not think there is."
"Perhaps," he continued, "I may have been fanciful all my life; but
years ago, when I was a boy at school, I pictured to myself a heroine
such as I thought I should love when I came to be a man."
She had forgotten her sweet, half sad shyness, and sat with faint flush
on her face, her lips parted, her blue eyes fixed on his.
"A heroine of my own creation," he went on; "and I gave her an ideal
face--lilies and roses blended, rose-leaf lips, a white brow, eyes the
color of hyacinths, and hair of pale gold."
"That is a pretty picture," she said, all unconscious that it was her
own portrait he had sketched.
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