Chased by the winds of passion raging within
him, discretion was fast departing from Peter, leaving him more and more
a prey to impulse and the unwearying persistence of the fever of love
that was consuming him.
"Listen, Mysie, I read a song yesterday. It's the sort of thing I'd have
written about you:
"In the passionate heart of the rose,
Which from life its deep ardor is feeing.
And lifts its proud head to disclose
Its immaculate beauty and being.
I can see your fine soul in repose,
With an eye lit with love and all-seeing,
In the passionate heart of the rose,
All athrob with its beauty of being."
He quoted, and Mysie's pulse leapt with every word, as the low soothing
wooing of his voice came in soft tones like a gentle breeze among clumps
of briars.
"Isn't it a beautiful song, Mysie?" he said. "The man who wrote that
must have been thinking of someone very like you," and as he said this,
he gave her hand a tender squeeze. Mysie thrilled to his touch and her
heart leapt and fluttered like a bird in a snare, her breath coming in
short little gasps, which were at once a pain and a joy.
"Dinna say that," she said, a note of alarm in her voice as she tried to
withdraw her hand.
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