A shy virgin bride would not press her thigh sinuously against his, nor consent indeed to this clandestine little comedy he had been playing. Her fingers rested upon his. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. I don’t idealize you. ‘—and I love your raven hair, and your bright blue eyes, and your very kissable lips—’ suiting the action to the words ‘—and I love the crazy way you speak English, and the way you curse at me. Every care had been taken of it, as well as of himself, by the humane inmates of the house in which he had sought shelter. These things did not harmonize with his conception of the forthcoming (if unavoidable) interview. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death. .
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