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Sabatini, Rafael, 1875-1950

"Scaramouche"

"
He caught the surprise that leapt to her eyes, before she veiled
them under drooping lids from his too questing gaze.
"Why, that was the first time you saw me."
"I had no earlier occasion to remark your charms."
"You ask me to believe too much," said she, but her tone was softer
than he had ever known it yet.
"Then you'll refuse to believe me if I confess that it was this
grace and beauty that determined my destiny that day by urging me
to join your father's troupe."
At that she became a little out of breath. There was no longer any
question of finding an outlet for resentment. Resentment was all
forgotten.
"But why? With what object?"
"With the object of asking you one day to be my wife."
She halted under the shock of that, and swung round to face him.
Her glance met his own without, shyness now; there was a hardening
glitter in her eyes, a faint stir of colour in her cheeks. She
suspected him of an unpardonable mockery.
"You go very fast, don't you?" she asked him, with heat.
"I do.


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