There is, it seems to him, a whole world in that smile; of mischief, and joy, and a promise so intense as to be almost a threat. It touches her eyes like summer sunlight on fresh leaves, and changes something in her face, makes her beauty intense beyond measure. It is not even her words, then, that bring the colour to his cheeks: that smile alone might be more than enough.
"Then," he finds himself saying, "may morning take its time in coming. For I am in no hurry to see this night end." And he finds, too, that his hand has reached out of its own volition, covering hers; that his grey eyes will not be dissuaded from meeting the sparkling emerald of her gaze; and that he, too, is smiling, almost without knowing it. The thought comes to him that this is strange, that it is like some enchantment has fallen upon him; behind that thought, his father's voice, strident in scorn at such silliness and boyish romanticism.
His father is dead. It grieves him to know it, but it must be remembered, too. His father is dead, and if there was ever a time when enchantment may be allowable, surely it must be now.
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"Then," he finds himself saying, "may morning take its time in coming. For I am in no hurry to see this night end." And he finds, too, that his hand has reached out of its own volition, covering hers; that his grey eyes will not be dissuaded from meeting the sparkling emerald of her gaze; and that he, too, is smiling, almost without knowing it. The thought comes to him that this is strange, that it is like some enchantment has fallen upon him; behind that thought, his father's voice, strident in scorn at such silliness and boyish romanticism.
His father is dead. It grieves him to know it, but it must be remembered, too. His father is dead, and if there was ever a time when enchantment may be allowable, surely it must be now.