rs? Do you know, when we were silent just
now, I was thinking that water was the history of the world flowing out
before me, all mixed up of kings and queens, and warriors with armour,
and shouting armies; battles and numbers of mixed people; and great
red sunsets, with women kneeling under them. Do you know those long low
sunsets? I love them. They look like blood spilt for love. The noise of
the water, and the moist green smell, gave me hundreds of pictures that
seemed to hug me. I thought--what could stir music in me more than this?
and, am I not just as rich if I stay here with my lover, instead of
flying to strange countries, that I shall not care for now? So, you
shall take me as I am. I do not feel poor any longer."

With that she gave him both her hands.

"Yes," said Wilfrid.

As if struck by the ridicule of so feeble a note, falling upon her
passionate speech, he followed it up with the "yes!" of a man; adding:
"Whatever you are, you are my dear girl; my own love; mine!"

Having said it, he was screwed up to feel it as nearly as possible, such
virtue is there in uttered words.

Then he set about resolutely studying to appreciate her in the new
character she had assumed to him. It is barely to be supposed that he
should understand what in her love for him she sacrificed in giving up
Italy, as she phrased it. He had some little notion of the sacrifice;
but, as he did not demand any sacrifice of the sort, and as this
involved a question perplexing, irritating, absurd, he did not regard
it very favourably. As mistress of his fancy, her prospective musical
triumphs were the crown of gold hanging over her. As wife of his bosom,
they were not to be thought of. But the wife of his bosom must take her
place by virtue of some wondrous charm. What was it that Emilia could
show, if not music? Beautiful eyebrows: thick rare eyebrows, no doubt
couched upon her full eyes, they were a marvel: and her eyes were a
marvel. She had a sweet mouth, too, though the upper lip did not boast
the aristocratic conventional curve of adorable pride, or the under
lip a pretty droop to a petty rounded chin. Her face was like the
aftersunset across a rose-garden, with the wings of an eagle poised
outspread on the light. Some such coloured, vague, magnified impression
Wilfrid took of her. Still, it was not quite enough to make him
scorn contempt, should it whisper: nor even quite enough to combat
successfully the image of elegant dames in