I remained in that cosy, book-lined den for perhaps an hour--one whole
hour of sweet, delightful ecstasy.
With her fair head buried upon my shoulder she shed tears of joy,
while, time after time, I smothered her white brow with my kisses. Ah!
yes, I loved her. I closed my eyes to all. I put away all my dark
suspicions, and lived only for the present in the knowledge that
Sylvia was mine--_mine!_
My hot, fevered declarations of affection caused her to cling to me
more closely, yet she uttered but few words, and those half-incoherent
ones, overcome as she was by a flood of emotion. She seemed to have
utterly broken down beneath the great strain, and now welcomed the
peace and all-absorbing happiness of affection. Alone and friendless,
as she had admitted herself to be, she had, perhaps, longed for the
love of an honest man. At least, that is what I was egotistical enough
to believe. Possibly I might have been wrong, for until that moment I
had ever been a confirmed bachelor, and had but little experience of
the fantastic workings of a woman's mind.
Like so many other men of my age, I had vainly believed myself to be
a philosopher. Yet are not philosophers merely soured cynics, after
all? And I certainly was neither cynical nor soured. Therefore my
philosophy was but a mere ridiculous affectation to which so many men
and women are prone.
But in those moments of ecstasy I abandoned myself entirely to love,
imprinting lingering, passionate kisses upon her lips, her closed
eyes, her wide white brow, while she returned my caresses, smiling
through her hot tears.