the first time a view of his face in profile; and found
"Merci! I should believe so!" ejaculated M. de Chateaurien: but he smothered the words upon his lips.
Her eyes were not lifted. She went on: "We come, in time, to believe that true feeling comes faltering forth, not glibly; that smoothness betokens the adept in the art, sir, rather than your true - your true - " She was herself faltering; more, blushing deeply, and halting to a full stop in terror of a word. There was a silence.
"Your - true - lover," he said huskily. When he had said that word both trembled. She turned half away into the darkness of the coach.
"I know what make' you to doubt me," he said, faltering himself, though it was not his art that prompted him. "They have tol' you the French do nothing al - ways but make love, is it not so? Yes, you think I am like that. You think I am like that now!"
"I suppose," he sighed, "I am unriz'nable; I would have the snow not so col' - for jus' me."
The fragrance of the fields came to them, and from the distance the faint, clear note of a hunting-horn.
The lovely head was bent very low. Her little gloved hand lay upon the narrow window ledge. He laid his own gently upon it. The two hands were shaking like twin leaves in the breeze. Hers was not drawn away. After a pause, neither knew how long, he felt the warm fingers turn and clasp themselves tremulously about his own. At last she looked up bravely and met his eyes. The horn was wound again - nearer.
"All the cold was gone from the snows - long ago," she said.