He
simply allowed himself to be possessed by it and Elfrida
saw his pleasure in his eager look and in every line of
his delicate features. It was delicious to be able to
give such pleasure, she thought. She felt like a thrice
spiritualized Hebe, lifting the cup, not to Jove, but to
a very superior mortal. She wished in effect, as she
looked at him, that he were of her essence--she might be
cup-bearer to him always then. It was a graceful and
unexacting occupation. But he was not absolutely, and
the question was how long--She started as he seemed to
voice her thought.
"This can't go on, Elfrida!"
Cardiff had somehow possessed himself of her hand as it
lay along the polished edge of the wooden seat. It was
a privilege, she permitted him sometimes, with the tacit
understanding that he was not to abuse it.
"And why not--for a little while? It is pleasant, I
think."
"If you were in love you would know why. You are not, I
know--you needn't say so. But it will come, Elfrida--only
give it the chance. I would stake my soul on the certainty
of being able to make you love me." His confidence in
the power of his own passion was as strong as a boy's of
twenty.
"If I were in love!" Elfrida repeated slowly, with an
absent smile.
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